i! 


'ft*. 


I 


IDLE    IDYLS 


By  the  Same  Author 
THE  JINGLE   BOOK 
THE  STORY  OF  BETTY 
AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE 
SPHINX 


f 


IK 


IDLE  IDTLS 


CAROLYN  WELLS 

Pictured  by 
OLIVER    HERFORD 


NEW  YORK  -  DODD,  MEAD 
AND  COMPANY  -  MDCCCC 


Copyright,  /poo,  by  D O D  D, 
MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS  •   JOHN  WILSON 
AND    SON     •      CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


To   OLIVER    HERFORD 
GUIDE,  PHILOSOPHER,  6-  FRIEND 


Kr.178817 


CONTENTS 


The  Spelling  Lesson 3 

A  Warning 4 

Sighted 7 

Tit  for  Tat 9 

To  Omar 10 

To  a  Milkmaid 13 

An  Artistic  Evening 15 

A  Secret  Woe 16 

The  Derelict 19 

A  Patient  Lover 20 

Fate 21 

My  Choice 22 

To  a  Poet 24 

The  Latest  Fad 26 

The  Poster  Girl's  Defence 28 

vii 


CONTENTS 


Ballade  of  Old  Loves 30 

Maiden  Meditation 32 

A  Rara  Avis 33 

A  Pastoral  in  Posters 35 

A  Ballade  of  Revolt 36 

The  111  Wind 38 

The  Whist  Player's  Soliloquy 40 

My  Friends 42 

To  Certain  Conservatives 43 

The  Annual  Sentence 46 

A  Ballade  of  Indignation 47 

My  Familiar 49 

A  Ballad  of  Christmas  Burdens 51 

The  Poster  Girl 54 

Sonnet  on  the  Sonnet  on  the  Sonnet ....  56 

Spring's  Revenge 57 

A  Ballade  of  Petition 62 

Cupid's  Failure 64 

The  Celebrants 65 

"  They  that  go  down  to  the  Sea  in  Ships  "      .  66 

A  Maiden's  No 69 

The  Original  Summer  Girl 70 

viii 


CONTENTS 


The  Debutante 71 

Ballade  of  Wisdom  and  Folly 73 

A  Possibility 75 

A  Memory 76 

The  Vampire  of  the  Hour 78 

An  Aquarelle 80 

In  Absence 83 

From  1/ivette's  Milkmaid 84 

A  Woman's  Wail 85 

The  Discriminant 88 

Nothing  to  Read 90 

A  Picture 94 

A  Problem 95 

The  Degenerate  Novelist 98 

Her  Spinning- Wheel 99 

Unkind  Fate 10° 

Woman's  Way 102 

One  Week 1Q5 

The  Trailing  Skirt 106 

Quatrain 109 

The  Ballade  of  The  Ad HO 

Aubrey  Beardsley's  Pictures 112 

ix 


CONTENTS 


Her  Easter  Morning 113 

An  Unwritten  Poem 115 

The  Book  Lifter 118 

Utilitarian 121 

Under  a  New  Charter 122 

Left 125 

An  Explanation 126 

The  Lay  of  Lothario  Lee 127 

Christmas  Eve 132 

Past  and  Present 133 

Epitaph  on  a  Ballet  Dancer 135 

An  Important  Trust 136 

An  Unorthodox  Christmas 138 

In  the  Klondike 140 

Cela  Va  Sans  Dire 142 

The  Thoughtful  Yardstick 143 

Auf  Wiedersehen 144 

Of  Modern  Books 145 

The  Horseless  Age 147 

The  Tragedy  of  a  Theatre  Hat 148 

Ballade  of  Ecclesiastes  154 


IDLE     IDYLS 


1  T  AM  nae  Poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  Rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 
I  jingle,  at  her" 


IDLE     IDYLS 


THE  SPELLING  LESSON 

WHEN  Venus  said :  "  Spell  no  for  me," 
"  N-O,"  Dan  Cupid  wrote  with  glee, 
And  smiled  at  his  success ; 
"  Ah,  child,"  said  Venus,  laughing  low, 
"  We  women  do  not  spell  it  so, 
We  spell  it  Y-E-S." 


A  WARNING 

,  you  Summer  Girl ! 

You    ridiculous,  absurd,    hackneyed,   over- 

worked,  adorable  Summer  Girl ! 

You  shirt-waisted  goddess 

And  sailor-hatted  sylph, 

You  picturesque  potpourri  of  outing  effects, 

You  think  you  're  great, 

Don't  you  ? 

And  you  are. 

You  're  a  power,  and  a  queen,  and  a  tyrant. 

And  you  know  it, 

And  you  glory  in  it. 

And  I  don't  blame  you. 

I  think  you  're  all  right  myself. 

But  — 

Although  you  rule  your  young  men, 

Your  swains  and  gallants  and  cavaliers  — 

Although  you  think 

All  mankind  bow  beneath  your  sway, 

It  is  n't  true. 

I  defy  you ! 

4 


A    WARNING 


I! 

I  am  your  lord  and  master,  and  of  me  you  are 

afraid ; 

Abjectly,  shrinkingly,  and  shudderingly  afraid. 
Who  am  I  ? 
1  am  Time,  Father  Time;    your  friend  and  ally 

now. 

But  remember, 
I  have  you  in  my  power, 
Irrevocably  in  my  power, 
And  at  my  will  I  can  transform  you  into  a  crone, 
An  old,  wrinkled,  haggard,  toothless  crone. 
But  I  won't  do  it  —  at  least,  not  now. 
For  a  few  years  I  will  let  you  defy  me. 
You  may  misuse  me,  waste  me,  and  even  try  to  kill 

me, 

And  I  will  only  serve  you  faithfully  in  return, 
And  bring  you  triumphs  and  happinesses. 
But  some  day 

I  will  steal  your  treasures  — 
Your  bewitching  gowns, 
And  coquettish  hats. 
Yes,  and  I  will  steal 
The  roses  from  your  cheeks 
And  the  sparkle  from  your  eyes. 
And  then,  milady, 

5 


IDLE    IDYLS 


What  will  you  do  ? 

But  meanwhile,  Summer  Girl, 

Have  all  the  fun  you  can. 

And  now, 

Run  away  and  play. 


SIGHTED 

ST.  VALENTINE'S  ship  comes  sailing 
Across  the  Sea  of  Dreams  ; 
Roses  hang  from  the  railing, 
The  golden  pennant  gleams. 

Blown  by  the  winds  of  Fancy, 

Careless  of  maps  or  charts ; 
Steered  by  Love's  necromancy, 

And  ballasted  with  hearts. 

Across  the  space  between  us 

She  glides  on  even  keel ; 
Her  figurehead  's  a  Venus, 

And  Cupid  Js  at  the  wheel. 

The  turtle-doves  are  swinging 
In  wreaths  hung  from  the  bow ; 

Youth  at  the  helm  is  singing, 
And  Pleasure  at  the  prow. 
7 


IDLE    IDYLS 


Freighted  with  fair  Romances, 
Love-knots  and  ribbons  blue ; 

As  nearer  she  advances 
I  hear  the  ringdoves  coo. 

Ho  !  maidens,  all  be  merry, 
And,  gallants,  pay  your  court ; 

Fourteenth  of  February 
She  will  arrive  in  port. 


TIT  FOR  TAT 


SECURE  from  observation, 
A  Bookworm  made  his  home 
And  pursued  his  occupation 
In  a  dry  and  dusty  tome, 

Made  by  some  wise  old  sages 
That  lesser  minds  might  learn. 

The  Bookworm  turned  the  pages 
(For  even  a  worm  will  turn) . 

He  said,  "  What  prosy  leaders ! 

And,  judging  by  its  look, 
This  book  has  bored  its  readers, 

Now  1  will  bore  the  book." 


TO  OMAR 


OMAR  KHAYYAM,  you  're  a  jolly  old  Aryan, 
Half  sybaritic  and  semi-barbarbian, 
Not  a  bit  mystic,  but  utilitarian, 
Fond  of  a  posy  and  fond  of  a  dram. 
Symbolist,  poet,  and  clear-eyed  philosopher, 
Had  you  a  wife  I  am  sure  you  were  boss  of  her, 
Yet  you  'd  be  ruled  by  the  coquettish  toss  of  her 
Garland-crowned  head  at  you,  Omar  Khayyam. 
For  there  is  vanity 
In  your  humanity, 
Else  your  urbanity 
Were  but  a  flam ; 
And  the  severity 
Of  your  austerity 
Proves  your  sincerity, 
Omar  Khayyam. 

Well  I  remember  when  first  you  were  heralded, 
Persian-born  poesy  ably  Fitzgeralded ; 
Impulse  said  buy  you  — and  I  to  my  peril  did  : 
Now  a  meek  slave  to  your  genius  I  am. 

10 


TO    OMAR 


Some  of  your  doctrines  to  us  may  seem  hatable, 

Though  we  admit  that  the  themes  are  debatable  ; 

But  your  ideas,  are  they  really  translatable 

Into  our  languages,  Omar  Khayyam  ? 

In  your  society 

All  inebriety 

Seems  but  propriety, 

Truth  but  a  sham  ; 

And  the  reality 

Of  your  carnality 

Courts  immortality, 

Omar  Khayyam. 

From  the  grave  depths  of  your  massive  tranquil 
lity 

Thoughts    you    produce,   knowing  well   their  fu 
tility, 

Thoughts  that  you  phrase  with  a  fatal  facility,  — 
Hurl  with  the  force  of  a  battering-ram ! 
But  we  care  not  though  your  message  be  cynical, 
Not  very  creedal,  and  scarcely  rabbinical, 
We,  your  adorers,  put  you  on  a  pinnacle, 
For  that  we  love  you,  old  Omar  Khayyam. 
Though  you  're  erroneous, 
Still  you  're  harmonious, 
And  you  're  euphonious 


IDLE    IDYLS 


In  epigram. 
O'er  the  censorious 
You  are  victorious ; 
We  hold  you  glorious, 
Omar  Khayyam. 


TO  A  MILKMAID 

T  HAIL  thee,  O  milkmaid  ! 
-**    Goddess  of  the  gaudy  morn,  hail ! 
Across  the  mead  tripping, 
Invariably  across  the  mead  tripping, 
The  merry  mead  with  cowslips  blooming, 
With  daisies  blooming, 
The  milkmaid  also  more  or  less  blooming ! 
I  hail  thee,  O  milkmaid  ! 

I  recognise  the  value  of  thy  pail  in  literature  and  art. 
What  were  a  pastoral  poet  without  the_e ,? 
Oh,  I  know  thee,  milkmaid  ! 
I  hail  thy  jaunty  juvenescence. 
I  know  thy  eighteen  summer^and  thy  eternal  springs. 
Ay,  I  know  thy  trials ! 

1  know  how  thou  art  outspread  over  pastoral  poetry. 
Rampant,  ubiquitous,  inevitable,  thy  riotings  in  pas 
toral  poetry, 

And  in  masterpieces  of  pastoral  art ! 
How  oft  have  I  seen  thee  sitting  ; 
On  a  tri-legged  stool  sitting ; 
On  the  wrong  side  of  the  cow  sitting ; 
'3 


IDLE    IDYLS 


Garbed  in  all  thy  preposterous  paraphernalia. 

I  know  thy  paraphernalia  — 

Yea,  even  thy  impossible  milk  pail  and  thy  improbable 

bodice. 

Short-skirted  siren ! 
Big-hatted  beauty ! 
What  were  the  gentle  spring  without  thee  ? 
I  hail  thee ! 
I  hail  thy  vernality,  and  I  rejoice  in  thy  hackneyed 

ubiquitousness. 

I  hail  the  superiority  of  thy  inferiorness,  and 
I  lay  at  thy  feet  this  garland  of  gratuitous 
Hails ! 


•'*(       'v' 

'/•>x   ^ ;' •>*•  ; 


/     ' 


AN  ARTISTIC  EVENING 

A  TURNER  sunset  flickered  on  the  madly-scarlet 
hills, 

And  the  valley  had  a  Wordsworth  atmosphere  ; 
The  babbling  little  brooklet  ran  in  Tennysonian  rills, 
And  a  Rosa  Bonheur  cow  was  grazing  near. 

A  crescent  moon  was  floating  on  the  Vereshchagin  sky, 

The  heavens  were  with  Ruskin  clouds  o'erspread  ; 

A  lanky  Burne-Jones  maiden,  with  a  halo,  wandered 

by, 

While  a  Millet  rustic  stood  and  hung  his  head. 

The  primrose  at  the  old  stand  blossomed  by  the 

river's  brim, 

A  nightingale  or  two  began  to  sing, 
And  Bouguereau's  Bather  murmured,  as  she  went  to 

take  her  swim : 
"  I  think  that  we  shall  have  a  Corot  Spring." 


A  SECRET  WOE 


A  GIBSON  Girl  was  hanging  in  a  frame  upon 
my  wall ; 
She  was  exceeding  graceful  and  she  was  exceeding 

tall. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  dreamed  it,  though  I  thought 

I  was  awake, 
But  that  Gibson  maiden  softly  sighed,  and  then  she 

softly  spake. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  lovely,  her  diction  was  correct, 
Her  language  such  as  from  a  Gibson  Girl  one  might 

expect ; 
But  she  seemed  a  bit  unhappy,  and  a  tear  was  in  her 

eye, 
So  I  sympathetically  begged  that  she  would  tell  me 

why. 

She  smiled  a  little  sadly,  and  in  a  wistful  tone 
She  rather  intimated  she  had  troubles  of  her  own. 
Then  she  folded  her  long  Gibson  arms  and  shook 

her  Gibson  head, 
Tossed  back  her  wavy  Gibson  hair,  and  this  is  what 

she  said: 

16 


A    SECRET   WOE 


"  I  know  that  I  am  stunning,  I  know  I  'm  chic  and 

swell ; 

My  costumes  are  perfection,  and  I  pose  extremely  well. 
I  can  play  at  golf  or  tennis,  I  can  skate  or  swim  or 

ride; 
I  've  been  admired  in  every  role  from  de'butante  to 

bride. 
I  look  charming  in  a  shirt  waist,  and  I  'm  given  every 

chance 
To  display  my  Gibson  shoulders  at  a  dinner  or  a 

dance. 

My  features  are  patrician,  and  my  figure  is  n't  bad ; 
I  'm  never  out  of  drawing,  and  I  am  the  present  fad. 
And  yet  —  I  know  I  'm  silly,  but  I  'm  longing  to  be 

short  — 

A  little  doll-faced  girlie  of  the  airy,  fairy  sort. 
To  be  caressed  and  petted,  called  Bebe  and  Petite ; 
To  be  told  that  I  have  tiny  hands  and  Cinderella  feet ; 
To  be  shielded  and  protected  lest  I  overtax  my 

strength ; 
To  wear  coats  and  skirts  and  dresses  of  an  ordinary 

length. 
And  besides,"  —  her  sweet  voice  faltered,  and  her 

Gibson  eyelids  drooped, 
And  round  her  fingers  nervously  her  handkerchief 

she  looped,  — 

»  17 


IDLE   IDYLS 


"  I  met  my  fate  this  summer,  —  I  did,  really,  —  and 

you  see 
I  'm  awfully  in  love  with  him,  and  he  's  in  love  with 

me. 
He 's  the  dearest  man  in  all  the  world,  but  he  is  n't 

very  tall, 

So  that 's  another  reason  why  I  wish  that  I  were  small. 
When  I  think  of  all  my  Gibson  beaus  of  six  feet, 

eight,  or  more, 
I  marvel  that  I  've  given  my  heart  to  a  man  of  five 

feet  four." 
She  said  no  more,  but  silently  she  hung  there  in  her 

place ; 

A  Gibson  impassivity  stole  o'er  her  perfect  face : 
And  1  love  her  and  admire  her  as  a  clever  work  of 

art, 
But  I  pity  that  poor  Gibson  Girl,  because  I  know 

her  heart. 


18 


THE  DERELICT 

UPON  the  sad,  illusive  Sea  of  Dreams, 
A  phantom  barque,  tossed  by  the  billows,  rides 
At  mercy  of  the  shifting  winds  and  tides  ; 
And  on  its  ghostly  sail  the  moonlight  gleams. 
Abandoned  by  all  mariners  it  seems  ; 
No  staying  hand  its  reckless  rudder  guides, 
Yet  smoothly  o'er  the  trackless  deep  it  glides, 
Unheeding  that  its  course  with  danger  teems. 

Across  the  watery  dark  my  way  I  grope, 

I  will  adopt  this  derelict  so  fair ; 

I  raise  my  flag  and  float  my  colours  there  — 
But  with  its  waywardness  I  cannot  cope ; 

I,  too,  abandon  it  in  my  despair, 
It  is  unseaworthy.    Its  name  is  Hope. 


A  PATIENT  LOVER 

MY  sweetheart  is  a  treasure 
And  I  love  her  beyond  measure, 
And  each  day  I  have  discovered  some  new  and 

charming  trait ; 

But  it  made  me  feel  the  saddest 
When  I  found  she  was  a  faddist, 
And  that  I  must  be  neglected  for  caprices  up  to 
date. 

At  one  time  it  was  Browning, 
Then,  First  Aid  to  the  Drowning, 
Then  Trying  to  Discover  why  Cats  Land  on  their 

Feet; 

Then  Bric-a-brac  Collecting, 
Then  Views  on  Vivisecting, 
Then  a  dainty  Kind  of  Slumming  in  a  very  dirty 
Street. 

Goodness  knows  what  next  it  will  be, 
For  a  long  time  it  was  "  Trilby," 

Until  unto  Napoleon  she  became  a  devotee  ; 
Now  it 's  Joan  of  Arc  and  her  Age  ; 
But  I  try  to  keep  up.  courage, 

For  I  hope  the  time  is  coming  when  she  '11  make 
a  fad  of  me. 

20 


FATE 

A~TPVWO  shall  be  born  the  whole  world  wide  apart, 
**       And  speak  in  different  tongues,  and  pay  their 

debts 

In  different  kinds  of  coin ;  and  give  no  heed 
Each  to  the  other's  being.    And  know  not 
That  each  might  suit  the  other  to  a  T, 
If  they  were  but  correctly  introduced. 
And  these,  unconsciously,  shall  bend  their  steps, 
Escaping  Spaniards  and  defying  war, 
Unerringly  toward  the  same  trysting-place, 
Albeit  they  know  it  not.     Until  at  last 
They  enter  the  same  door,  and  suddenly 
They  meet.     And  ere  they  've  seen  each  other's  face 
They  fall  into  each  other's  arms,  upon 
The  Broadway  cable  car  —  and  this  is  Fate ! 


21 


MY  CHOICE 

POETS  in  dainty  verse  express 
The  charms  of  maid  or  lady  fair ; 
They  rhyme  their  praises  of  her  dress, 
Or  laud  the  snood  that  binds  her  hair. 
Sylvia's  shoe 's  beyond  compare,  — 
Katherine's  kirtle  's  tightly  laced,  — 

But  in  these  themes  I  have  no  share, 
I  sing  my  Polly's  pink  shirt  waist. 

The  stately  ruff  of  good  Queen  Bess, 

Or  Cleopatra's  mantle  rare, 
Have  each  a  charm,  I  will  confess,  — 

The  peasant's  garb  is  debonair; 

The  Gainsborough  with  its  flaunting  flare, 
Demure  Priscilla's  kerchief  chaste,  — 

None  of  these  may  my  heart  ensnare, 
I  sing  my  Polly's  pink  shirt  waist. 

Although  the  white  veil  seems  to  bless 
The  novice  as  she  kneels  in  prayer ; 

Though  cap  and  gown  achieve  success 
In  college  or  professor's  chair ; 

22 


MY   CHOICE 


Toilettes  which  'neath  the  gas-light's  glare 
The  haughty  ball-room  belle  have  graced,  — 

For  praise  of  these,  go,  search  elsewhere, 
I  sing  my  Polly's  pink  shirt  waist. 

L'ENVOI 

Princess,  I  mind  not  what  you  wear, 
Your  royal  robes  suit  not  my  taste ; 

For  silks  and  gems  I  do  not  care, 
I  sing  my  Polly's  pink  shirt  waist. 


YES,  Poet,  I  am  coming  down  to  earth, 
To  spend  the  merry  months  of  blossom-time ; 
But  don't  break  out  in  pasans  of  glad  mirth 
Expressed  in  hackneyed  rhyme. 
24 


TO    A    POET  — BY   SPRING 

For  once,  dear  Poet,  won't  you  kindly  skip 

Your  ode  of  welcome  ?    It  is  such  a  bore ; 
I  am  no  chicken,  and  1  've  made  the  trip 
Six  thousand  times  or  more. 

And  as  I  flutter  earthward  every  year, 

You  must  admit  that  it  grows  rather  stale 
When  I  arrive,  repeatedly  to  hear 

The  same  old  annual  "  Hail !  " 

Time  was  when  I  enjoyed  the  poets'  praise, 

Will  Shakspere's  song,  or  Mr.  Milton's  hymn ; 
Or  even  certain  little  twittering  lays 
By  ladies  quaint  and  prim. 

Chaucer  and  Spenser  filled  me  with  delight,— 
And  how  I  loved  to  hear  Bob  Herrick  woo ! 
Old  Omar  seemed  to  think  I  was  all  right, 
And  Aristotle,  too. 

But  I  am  sated  with  this  fame  and  glory, 

Oh,  Poet,  leave  Parnassian  heights  unsealed ; 
This  time  let  me  be  spared  the  same  old  story, 
And  come  for  once  unhailed  ! 


THE  LATEST  FAD 

N ANNETTE  is  just  the  dearest  girl; 
To  her  I  vow  my  love  and  duty ; 
From  slipper-tip  to  shining  curl 

She  's  my  ideal  of  dainty  beauty. 
She 's  all  a  fiancee  should  be, 

No  words  are  fond  enough  to  praise  her ; 
But  life  has  lost  its  charm  for  me 
Since  Nan  became  a  crystal -gazer. 

The  passing  fad  of  each  new  day 

Has  caught  her  somewhat  fickle  fancy ; 
It  nearly  took  my  breath  away 

When  she  went  in  for  Chiromancy. 
She  studied  Psychical  Research, 

And  Hypnotism  did  n't  faze  her ; 
She  even  joined  the  Buddhist  church ; 

But  now  she  is  a  crystal -gazer. 

Some  of  her  fads  I  rather  liked,  — 
Her  cult  of  Ibsen,  or  of  Browning, 

Her  swagger  costume  when  she  biked, 
Her  Dress  Reform  and  Delsarte  gowning ; 
26 


THE    LATEST    FAD 


\  liked  it  when  she  tried  to  cook 
Crabs  a  la  Newburg  in  her  blazer ; 

But  life  takes  on  a  different  look 
Since  Nan  became  a  crystal -gazer. 

Her  fervid  gaze  she  concentrates,  — 

That  crystal  ball  her  constant  focus ; 
She  ardently  invokes  the  Fates 

And  all  their  mystic  hocus-pocus, 
With  muscles  tense,  and  head  erect, 

Until  the  gleaming  crystal  sways  her 
(I  've  known  it  to  have  that  effect, 

Though  I  am  not  a  crystal -gazer). 

Of  course  I  know  it 's  but  a  freak, 

The  very  latest  London  notion ; 
She  may  forget  it  in  a  week 

And  find  some  other  new  devotion. 
But  with  my  heart  too  long  she 's  played, 

I  wonder  if  it  would  amaze  her 
If  I  should  woo  another  maid 

While  Nan  remains  a  crystal -gazer. 


THE  POSTER  GIRL'S  DEFENCE 


TT  was  an  Artless  Poster  Girl  pinned  up  against 

-^  my  wall, 

She  was  tremendous  ugly,  she  was  exceeding  tall ; 

I  was  gazing  at  her  idly,  and  I  think  I  must  have 

slept, 
For  that  poster  maiden  lifted  up  her  poster  voice,  and 

wept. 

She  said  between  her  poster  sobs,  "  I  think  it 's  rather 

rough 
To  be  jeered  and  fleered  and  flouted,  and  I  've  stood 

it  long  enough ; 
I  'm  tired  of  being  quoted  as  a  Fright  and  Fad  and 

Freak, 
And  I  take  this  opportunity  my  poster  mind  to  speak- 

"  Although  my  hair  is  carmine  and  my  nose  is  edged 

with  blue, 
Although  my  style  is  splashy  and  my  shade  effects 

are  few, 

28 


THE   POSTER    GIRL'S    DEFENCE 

Although  1  'm  out  of  drawing  and  my  back  hair  is 

a  show, 
Yet  I  have  n't  half  the  whimseys  of  the  maidens  that 

you  know. 

"  I  never  keep  you  waiting  while  I  prink  before  the 

glass, 

I  never  talk  such  twaddle  as  that  little  Dawson  lass, 
I  never  paint  on  china,  nor  erotic  novels  write, 
And  I  never  have  recited  '  Curfew  must  not  ring  to 
night.' 

"  1  don't  rave  over  Ibsen,  I  never,  never  flirt, 

1  never  wear  a  shirt  waist  with  a  disconnected  skirt ; 

I  never  speak  in  public  on  (  The  Suffrage,'  or  '  The 

Race,' 
1  never  talk  while  playing  whist,  or  trump  my  partner's 


I  said :  "  O  artless  Poster  Girl,  you  're  in  the  right 

of  it, 

You  are  a  joy  forever,  though  a  thing  of  beauty,  nit !  " 
And  from  her  madder  eyebrows  to  her  utmost  purple 

swirl, 
Against  all  captious  critics  I  '11  defend  the  Poster  Girl. 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  LOVES 

TT  7 HO  is  it  stands  on  the  polished  stair, 

*  *      A  merry,  laughing,  winsome  maid, 
From  the  Christmas  rose  in  her  golden  hair 

To  the  high-heeled  slippers  of  spangled  suede  ? 

A  glance,  half  daring  and  half  afraid, 
Gleams  from  her  roguish  eyes  downcast ; 

Already  the  vision  begins  to  fade  — 
'T  is  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 

Who  is  it  sits  in  that  high -backed  chair, 

Quaintly  in  ruff  and  patch  arrayed, 
With  a  mockery  gay  of  a  stately  air 

As  she  rustles  the  folds  of  her  old  brocade,  — 

Merriest  heart  at  the  masquerade  ? 
Ah,  but  the  picture  is  passing  fast 

Back  to  the  darkness  from  which  it  strayed  — 
T  is  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 

Who  is  it  whirls  in  a  ball-room's  glare, 
Her  soft  white  hand  on  my  shoulder  laid, 

Like  a  radiant  lily,  tall  and  fair, 
While  the  violins  in  the  corner  played 
30 


BALLADE    OF    OLD    LOfES 

The  wailing  strains  of  the  Serenade  ? 
Oh,  lovely  vision,  too  sweet  to  last  — 

E'en  now  my  fancy  it  will  evade  — 
T  is  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 

L'ENVOl 

Rosamond  !  look  not  so  dismayed, 
All  of  my  heart,  dear  love,  thou  hast. 

Jealous,  belove'd  ?    Of  a  shade  ?  — 
T  is  only  a  ghost  of  a  Christmas  Past. 


MAIDEN  MEDITATION 

(A  RONDEAU) 

"JX/TYRTILLA  thinks!  be  still,  oh,  breeze, 
-*-*-*•     Ye  birds,  cease  warbling  in  the  trees, 

Ye  wavelets,  your  light  plash  subdue, 

Ye  turtle-doves,  neglect  to  coo, 
And  silent  be,  ye  buzzing  bees, 

Lest  even  your  soft  harmonies 
Intrude  upon  such  thoughts  as  these, 
For  though  astonishing,  't  is  true, 
Myrtilla  thinks ! 

Plunged  in  profoundest  reveries, 
Fair  visions  her  rapt  fancy  sees ; 

So  undecided  what  to  do  — 

Shall  she  wear  pink  ?  shall  she  wear  blue  ? 
Amid  her  pretty  fineries 
Myrtilla  thinks ! 


A  KARA  AVIS 

there  was  an  Easter  Bonnet 
With  some  wings  and  feathers  on  it, 
And  a  tiny  shiny  buckle  in  a  bit  of  ribbon  shirred. 
Said  the  ladies,  "  Please  inform  us 
Why  its  bill  is  so  enormous," 
And  that  foolish  little  Easter  Bonnet  thought  it 

was  a  bird ! 
3  33 


IDLE    IDYLS 


It  slyly  watched  its  chances, 
And  escaping  people's  glances, 
It  flew  straight  out  the  window  and  it  lighted  on 

a  tree. 

With  fear  its  wings  were  quaking, 
And  its  little  frame  was  shaking, 
But  it  sat  there  smiling  bravely  though  'twas 
frightened  as  could  be. 

Said  the  birds,  "  You  're  of  our  feather, 
Come  and  let  us  flock  together," 
But  the  Bonnet  answered  proudly,  "  I'm  exclusive 

and  select ; 

And  although  I  could  be  pleasant 
To  an  ostrich  or  a  pheasant, 
For  me  to  herd  with  common  birds  you  really 
can't  expect." 

Said  a  hunter,  "  This  is  pretty, 
I  will  take  it  home  to  Kitty," 
Then  he  aimed  his  gun  and  shot  it  and  it  fell  with 
out  a  word. 

Then  it  gave  a  final  flutter, 
And  pertly  seemed  to  mutter, 
"  Well,  after  all,  I  'd  rather  be  a  Bonnet  than  a 
bird." 


34 


A  PASTORAL  IN  POSTERS 


THE  mid-day  moon  lights  up  the  rocky  sky ; 
The  great  hills  flutter  in  the  greenish  breeze ; 
While  far  above  the  lowing  turtles  fly 
And  light  upon  the  pinky-purple  trees. 

The  gleaming  trill  of  jagged,  feathered  rocks 

I  hear  with  glee  as  swift  I  fly  away, 
And  over  waves  of  subtle  woolly  flocks 

Crashes  the  breaking  day  ! 


35 


A  BALLADE  OF  REVOLT 


YT7ASHINGTON'S  cherry-tree  I  prize, 

And  Jonah's  whale,  —  and  how  I  hate 
Iconoclasts  who  would  revise 

The  old  traditions,  small  or  great. 

Yet  there  be  fools  who  idly  prate 
Of  late  research ;  and  some  buffoon 

Declares  the  old  man  out  of  date,  — 
Now  there 's  a  woman  in  the  moon. 

Aggressive  women  I  despise, 

Yet  they  are  everywhere  of  late ; 
Insistent,  bold,  and  overwise, 

They  meddle  with  affairs  of  state. 

Unending  trouble  they  create, 
And  deem  their  services  a  boon ; 

Much  grave  disturbance  I  await, 
Now  there  's  a  woman  in  the  moon. 

I  know  just  how  she  '11  scrutinise 

Each  timid  lover  and  his  mate  ; 
She  '11  slyly  peer  with  curious  eyes, 

When  Dick  and  I  shall  stroll  or  skate ; 
36 


A    BALLADE    OF    REVOLT 

I  'm  positive,  at  any  rate, 
I  would  n't  even  dare  to  spoon 

With  Robbie  Smithers  at  the  gate, 
Now  there 's  a  woman  in  the  moon. 

L'ENVOI 

Sweetheart,  it  is  a  cruel  fate, 
Her  advent's  most  inopportune  ; 

It  spoils  our  moonlight  tete-a-tete, 
Now  there 's  a  woman  in  the  moon. 


37 


T 


THE  ILL  WIND 


HE  Little  111  Wind  that  blows  nobody  good 
Came  puffing  along  as  fast  as  he  could. 


And  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  wickedly  blew, 
"  What  mischief  a  little  ill  wind  can  do !  " 

He  came  on  the  wild-rose  bush  with  a  bound, 
And  the  prettiest  petals  fell  off  on  the  ground. 

The  leaves  on  the  trees  he  kept  ashake 
Till  their  poor  little  stems  began  to  ache. 

Oh,  he  was  a  bad  little,  mad  little  wind, 
In  every  possible  way  he  sinned. 

If  a  passer-by  sniffed  the  new-mown  hay, 
He  blew  its  fragrance  the  other  way. 

He  tickled  the  grasses  until  they  shook, 
And  tirelessly  ruffled  a  placid  brook. 

He  broke  the  string  of  Tot's  balloon, 
And  carried  it  upwards  toward  the  moon. 

38 


THE    ILL    WIND 


He  blew  back  the  tress  of  Clorinda's  hair,  — 
Which  her  lover  had  just  resolved  to  dare. 

Then  he  came  to  my  window,  with  cheeks  puffed  out, 
And  blew  my  papers  all  about. 

Till  I  threatened  to  put  him  in  print  some  day,  — 
Which  frightened  him  so  that  he  blew  away 

And  hid  himself  in  the  depths  of  the  wood, 
That  little  111  Wind  that  blows  nobody  good. 


39 


THE  WHIST  PLAYER'S 
SOLILOQUY 

TO  trump,  or  not  to  trump,  —  that  is  the  ques 
tion; 

Whether  't  is  better  in  this  case  to  notice 
The  leads  and  signals  of  outraged  opponents, 
Or  to  force  trumps  against  a  suit  of  diamonds, 
And  by  opposing,  end  them  ? 

To  trump,  —  to  take,  — 
No  more ;  and  by  that  trick  to  win  the  lead 
And  after  that  return  my  partner's  spades 
For  which  he  signalled,  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.    To  trump,  — to  take,  — 
To  take  !  perchance  to  win !    Ay,  there  Js  the  rub ; 
For  if  we  win  this  game,  what  hands'  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  up  these  cards  again ! 
Play  to  the  score  ?    Ah !  yes,  there  's  the  defect 
That  makes  this  Duplicate  Whist  so  much  like  work. 
For  who  would  heed  the  theories  of  Hoyle, 
The  laws  of  Pole,  the  books  of  Cavendish, 
The  Short-suit  system,  leads  American, 
The  Eleven  Rule  Finesse,  the  Fourth-best  play, 
40 


THE   WHIST  PLAYER'S   SOLILOQUY 

The  Influence  of  Signals  on  the  Ruff, 

When  he  himself  this  doubtful  trick  might  take 

With  a  small  two-spot  ?    Who  would  hesitate 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  afterward, 

An  undiscovered  discard,  or  forced  lead 

When  playing  the  return,  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  us  rather  lose  the  tricks  we  have 

To  win  the  others  that  we  know  not  of. 

Thus  Duplicate  Whist  makes  cowards  of  us  all ; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  Bumblepuppy 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 

And  good  whist  players  of  great  skill  and  judgment, 

With  this  regard  their  formulas  defy, 

And  lose  the  game  by  ruffing. 


MY  FRIENDS 

WITHIN  one  room,  around  one  desk 
Consorted  scribblers  three ; 
Each  one  was  more  or  less  renowned,  — 
Kipling  and  Howells  and  me. 

Kipling  sat  there  with  pen  in  hand, 

But  not  a  word  wrote  he ; 
And  Howells,  too,  seemed  lost  in  thought,  - 

Which  was  the  case  with  me. 

And  Kipling  smiled  a  blooming  smile 

In  sympathetic  glee, 
As  from  his  heights  of  cleverness 

He  kindly  looked  on  me. 

Howells  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes 

Quite  introspectively ; 
Which  somehow  seemed  to  make  me  think 

That  he  approved  of  me. 

They  '11  never  write,  they  '11  never  speak,— 
They 're  photographs,  you  see; 

But  still,  we  are  a  jolly  crowd,— 
Kipling  and  Howells  and  me. 
42 


TO  CERTAIN   CONSERVATIVES 


WHY  this  tempest  in  a  teapot  ?    Why  this  much 
ado  for  naught  ? 

Why  this  worry  lest  some  literary  wares  be  cheaply 
bought  ? 

Our  Few  Books  lie  at  our  elbow,  then  what  matters 
it  to  us 

If  the  Average  Reader's  stock  of  books  is  multi 
tudinous  ? 

If  the  publishers  are  issuing  editions  large  and  cheap, 
Tis  because  the  Average  Reader  will  not  pay  the 
prices  steep. 

We  should  smile  on  them  benignly  and  feel  very 

glad  indeed ; 
For  when  books  were  rare  and  costly,  these  same 

people  did  n't  read. 

And  I  think  that  the  Enlightened  surely  ought  to 

understand 
That  the  Cheapening  Process  came  to  meet  a  Popular 

Demand. 

43 


IDLE    IDYLS 


Just  as  in  all  other  branches  imitators  imitate  — 
Since  we  eat  with  sterling  silver,  must  there  be  no 
triple  plate  ? 

We  may  have  a  clever  chef,  yet  some  there  be  who 

use  canned  soups,  — 
Though  we  own  a  rare  Bacchante  there's  demand 

for  Rogers'  Groups. 

And  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to  our  Unenlightened 

Friend, 
If  he  has  the  Cheap  Book  habit,  nothing  can  his  fate 

forfend. 

T  is  the  manner  not  the  matter  that  is  cheapened, 

for  there  be 
Fausts  for   thirty-seven  cents  and    Rubaiyats  for 

twenty-three. 

And  the  Average  Reader  buys  them  at  a  large  De 
partment  Store, 
Next  day  delivered  carriage  free  at  his  suburban  door. 

But  what  is  this  to  us  ?    What  boots  it  with  inces 
sant  care 

To  try  to  change  the  leopard's  spots  ?    It  is  n't  our 
affair. 

44 


TO    CERTAIN    CONSERVATIVES 

And  if  our  neighbour's  cheapened  books  are  cheapen 
ing  his  cheap  brain, 

It  only  proves  all  efforts  to  reform  him  would  be 
vain. 

We  Enlightened  will  continue  as  of  yore  to  buy  our 

books, 
Not  The  Handy  Gimcrack  Series,  nor  editions  de 

luxe; 

But  with  calm  discrimination  we  will  buy  the  books 

we  need, 
And  our  brains  will  not  be  cheapened  as  absorbedly 

we  read. 


45 


THE  ANNUAL  SENTENCE 

SOCIETY  in  wig  and  gown 
Sat  in  the  judge's  place, 
The  sternest  kind  of  legal  frown 
Upon  her  charming  face. 

She  sadly  shook  her  pretty  head : 
"  On  account  of  their  wicked  ways, 

The  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil,"  she  said, 
"  Are  sentenced  for  forty  days  ! " 


46 


A  BALLADE  OF   INDIGNATION 

NOW  if  there  is  one  thing  I  hate 
It  is  lame  vers  de  societe, 
And  I  cannot  help  feeling  irate 
With  the  versemongers  writing  to-day. 
They  rhyme  a  thing  any  old  way, 
They  regard  neither  science  nor  schools ; 

But  when  the  French  Forms  they  essay, 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

They  consider  themselves  "  up-to-date  " 

If  they  've  written  a  Sonnet  to  May, 
And  fancy  they  feel  on  their  pate 

A  chaplet  of  laurel  or  bay. 

At  a  triolet  or  virelai 
They  rush,  like  proverbial  fools,  — 

But  in  their  wild,  wordy  display 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

In  their  ignorance  boldly  elate, 
To  rhymes  no  attention  they  pay ; 

They  ride  at  a  rollicking  gait 
On  a  Pegasus  madly  astray. 
47 


IDLE    IDYLS 


No  hindrance  their  progress  will  stay, 
No  remonstrance  their  mad  ardour  cools, 

But  in  their  syllabic  array 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 

L'ENVOl 

Calliope,  pardon,  I  pray, 
These  workmen  without  any  tools, 

And  to  them  this  message  convey : 
At  least  they  might  follow  the  rules. 


48 


MY  FAMILIAR 

THERE 'S  a  little  Lincoln  Devil  that  hangs  above 
my  desk, 

An  ugly,  yellow  plaster  imp,  exceedingly  grotesque ; 
But  a  human,  real  intelligence  in  his  weird  face  I  see, 
And  a  subtle  sympathy  exists  between  my  imp  and 
me. 

He's  a  grinning,  graceless  rascal,  like  Kipling's  Gunga 

Din, 
And  he  has  a  sense  of  humour  that  is  marvellously 

keen ; 
He  hears  gravely  all  my  joking,  and  then  when  1 

have  done, 
He  seems  to  shake  his  shaggy  sides,  convulsed  with 

silent  fun. 

I  confide  to  him  my  secret  woes,  reveal  to  him  my 

grief, 
For  somehow,  from  his  elfish  eyes  he 's  sure  to  blink 

relief ; 
All  my  highest  aspirations  and  my  fondest  hopes  I 

bring, 
For  he  hears  me  with  a  thoughtful  gaze  that 's  most 

encouraging. 
4  49 


IDLE    IDYLS 


I  acknowledge  my  shortcomings,  and  he  scowls  in 

glum  reproof, 
As  with  his  lean  and  horny  claws  he  grips  his  cloven 

hoof. 
And  then  the  day  my  heart  broke, — when  I  told  it 

all  to  him 
A  sort  of  yearning  tenderness  stole  o'er  his  features 

grim; 

But  the  dogged,  brave  endurance  of  his  fixed  and 

stony  stare, 
His  hard-drawn  mouth  and  firm-set  teeth,  said  only, 

"  Grin  and  bear  !  " 
So  I  love  my  little  Devil,  for  he  '11  help  me  win  the 

strife, 
With  his  comprehensive  grasp  of  the  philosophy  of 

life. 


A  BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS 
BURDENS 


THE  burden  of  gay  greeting.    Vain  delight, — 
For  who  among  us  means  a  word  we  say  ? 
In  hackneyed  speech  we  clothe  our  message  trite, 
And  idly  voice  the  wishes  of  the  day. 
We  smile  and  bow  in  our  accustomed  way, 
While  our  indifference  we  try  to  hide, 

Stifling  our  boredom,  striving  to  be  gay  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  much  giving.    Every  year 

We  realise  anew  the  fearful  fraud 
This  custom  is.    And  then,  albeit  we  sneer, 

We  buy  afresh  the  bauble  and  the  gaud, 

Hoping  thereby  to  win  a  hollow  laud, 
Or  gain  a  compliment  to  feed  our  pride  ; 

Contented  if  the  giddy  world  applaud  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 


IDLE    IDYLS 


The  burden  of  scant  shekels.    Woe  impends 

The  wight  whose  way  is  with  this  danger  fraught ; 
Lured  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Times  he  spends 

More  than  he  meant  to  and  more  than  he  ought. 

And  when  he  views  the  gew-gaws  he  has  bought, 
And  sees  his  empty  pockets  yawning  wide, 

He  sadly  bows  his  head  in  anxious  thought  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  swift  shopping.    Crowded  streets 

And  rushing  messengers  our  way  impede. 
Our  innocence  the  wily  fakir  cheats, 

And  fleeces  us,  weak  victims  to  his  greed ; 

Or  haply  haughty  clerks  pay  us  no  heed : 
At  our  approach  they  partly  turn  aside 

Until  our  ire  our  patience  doth  exceed  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 

The  burden  of  great  eating.    Other  days 

It  matters  not  so  much  how  we  may  dine ; 
But  at  this  festival  tradition  says 

We  must  bestir,  and  kill  the  fatted  kine. 

The  board  must  groan  'neath  rarest  food  and  wine, 
Boar's  head  and  wassail  bowl  we  must  provide, 

That  our  digestion  we  may  undermine  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 
52 


A  BALLAD   OF   CHRISTMAS  BURDENS 


ENVOY 

Comrades,  and  ye  who  Christmas  pleasures  seek, 
These  timely  thoughts  to  you  I  would  confide  ; 

Hearken  unto  the  wisdom  that  I  speak  : 
This  is  the  end  of  every  Christmas-tide. 


53 


THE  POSTER  GIRL 

THE  blessed  Poster  Girl  leaned  out 
From  a  pinky-purple  heaven ; 
One  eye  was  red  and  one  was  green ; 

Her  bangs  were  cut  uneven  ; 
She  had  three  fingers  on  her  hand, 
And  the  hairs  on  her  head  were  seven, 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  sunflowers  did  adorn ; 
But  a  heavy  Turkish  portiere 

Was  very  neatly  worn  ; 
And  the  hat  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow,  like  canned  corn. 

It  was  a  kind  of  wobbly  wave 

That  she  was  standing  on, 
And  high  aloft  she  flung  a  scarf 

That  must  have  weighed  a  ton. 
And  she  was  rather  tall,  —  at  least 

She  reached  up  to  the  sun. 
54 


THE    POSTER    GIRL 


She  curved  and  writhed,  and  then  she  said, 
Less  green  of  speech  than  blue : 

"  Perhaps  I  am  absurd  —  perhaps 
I  don't  appeal  to  you ; 

But  my  artistic  worth  depends 
Upon  the  point  of  view." 

I  saw  her  smile,  although  her  eyes 

Were  only  smudgy  smears  ; 
And  then  she  swished  her  swirling  arms, 

And  wagged  her  gorgeous  ears. 
She  sobbed  a  blue-and -green  checked  sob, 

And  wept  some  purple  tears. 


55 


SONNET  ON  THE  SONNET  ON 
THE  SONNET 

WHAT  is  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet  ?    Well, 
It  is  a  bit  of  verbal  filigree, 
A  mass  of  metaphor  and  simile, 
A  little  wooden  poem  made  to  sell. 
What  does  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet  tell  ? 
It  murmurs  of  the  murmurs  of  the  sea, 
Or  buzzes  of  the  buzzing  of  the  bee, 
Or  tinkles  of  the  tinkling  of  a  bell. 

Why  is  the  sonnet  on  the  sonnet  writ  ? 
Forsooth,  he  deems  that  he  a  boon  confers 
Who  paints  the  lily  or  pure  gold  refines ; 
And  so  the  writer  glories  in  his  wit, 
And  calls  himself  a  poet ;  yet  he  errs  : 
He  gives  us  only  fourteen  prosy  lines. 


SPRING'S  REVENGE 

Tj^ATHER  TIME  in  his  office  was  sitting, 
*?       When  he  happened  to  spy 

A  calendar  nigh. 

"  Goodness  me  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  how  I  'm  flitting 
My  days  are  just  scurrying  by ! 

"  The  world  has  used  up  the  whole  winter, 
And  demands  the  next  stage 
At  the  turn  of  the  page ; 
I  declare,  one  must  be  a  real  sprinter 
To  keep  up  with  the  pace  of  this  age. 
57 


IDLE    IDYLS 


"  Here,  Spring,  get  your  garlands  and  flowers  ; 
With  laughter  and  mirth 
You  must  skip  down  to  earth, 

Take  plenty  of  sunshine  and  showers, 
And  hurry  for  all  you  are  worth." 

Then  said  Spring,  with  a  pout  of  unreason, 
"  Oh,  please,  Father  dear, 
Let  me  off  just  this  year ; 
I  hate  the  Earth  more  every  season, 
It 's  a  silly,  absurd  little  sphere ! " 


SPRING'S    REVENGE 


"  Why,  my  child,"  said  old  Father  Time,  frowning, 

"  They  are  waiting,  you  know, 

And  of  course  you  must  go, 

The  poets  their  Queen  would  be  crowning. 

What  on  Earth  has  offended  you  so  ? " 


"  Spring  odes,  lays,  and  ballads  they  fashion ; 

I  've  known  one  man  to  pen 

As  many  as  ten ! 

And  I  vow  "  —  here  she  flew  in  a  passion  — 
"  I  never  will  go  there  again !  " 


"  Well,  of  course  you  can't  help  their  admiring," 

Said  Time,  looking  wise, 

"  So  I  would  advise 
That  you  travel  incog.,  by  attiring 
Yourself  in  some  sort  of  disguise." 


"  Oh,  Time,  what  a  clever  suggestion ! 
T  is  the  very  best  thing," 
Exclaimed  giddy  young  Spring. 
"  Now  what  shall  I  wear  ?  —  that 's  the  question, 
When  my  merry  way  earthward  I  wing. 
59 


IDLE    IDYLS 


"  Here 's  a  snow  robe  of  Winter's,  that 's  jolly ; 

I  '11  take  it  to  wear, 

And  I  '11  stick  in  my  hair 
Some  mistletoe  sprays  and  some  holly  — 
They  '11  never  know  me,  I  declare !  " 


u 


60 


SPRING'S    REVENGE 


"  Come,  come,"  said  old  Time,  "  you  must  hurry, 

T  is  Feb.  28, 

March  1  is  your  date, 
And  I'm  in  a  sad  state  of  worry, 
For  I  am  morally  sure  you  '11  be  late." 

"  All  right,"  answered  Spring,  "  I  am  going." 

Her  mantle  she  drew 

Around  her  and  flew 

Down  to  Earth,  where  't  was  blowing  and  snowing  — 
She  crept  in  and  nobody  knew. 


61 


A  BALLADE  OF  PETITION 


"  The  Blue  Skalallatoot  stories  are  all  morning  stories." 

—  RUDYARD  KIPLING 


of  the  Pen,  your  work  comprises 
Love  and  Glory  and  Fame  and  Gore, 
Your  versatile  genius  authorises 
The  babble  of  babes  and  the  jungle  roar, 
Tales  you  tell  of  the  crew  and  corps, 
The  old  official  and  young  recruit  ; 

We  've  read  all  these,  and  we  beg  for  more  — 
We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 

The  weird  name  baffles  all  surmises, 

Its  strange  uncertainty  we  'd  explore  ; 
For  ever  the  heart  of  man  despises 

The  mysteries  he  has  solved  before  ; 

We  only  delve  for  the  hidden  ore, 
We  crave  unknown,  not  forbidden  fruit  ; 

Give  us  the  treasure  you  have  in  store, 
We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 
62 


A    BALLADE    OF  PETITION 

Tell  us,  we  pray,  what  his  shape  and  size  is, 

Did  he  reside  on  the  sea  or  shore  ? 
Recount  his  exciting  enterprises, 

Tell  what  he  lived  on  and  what  he  wore ; 

Over  his  story  we  fain  would  pore, 
Sharpen  your  quill  or  tune  your  lute ; 

In  verse  or  story  or  old  folk-lore 
We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 

L'ENVOI 

Kipling,  we  've  read  your  tales  of  yore, 
How  Bagheera  growled  and  Mulvaney  swore. 

Now  whether  he 's  Man  or  Thing  or  Brute, 

We  want  the  Blue  Skalallatoot. 


63 


CUPID'S  FAILURE 

CUPID  one  day,  in  idle  quest, 
Fitted  a  dainty  dart 
And  aimed  it  at  Priscilla's  breast, 
To  strike  Priscilla's  heart. 

Clean  through  it  went,  no  heart  was  there ; 

Said  Cupid,  "  I  believe 
Priscilla's  just  the  girl  to  wear 

Her  heart  upon  her  sleeve." 

But  there,  alack  !  it  was  not  found  ; 

"  Aha !  "  cried  Cupid,  "  note 
Her  frightened  air ;  now  I  '11  be  bound 

Her  heart  is  in  her  throat." 

Failure  again.    On  slender  chance 

He  one  more  arrow  shoots ; 
Assuming  from  her  downcast  glance 

Her  heart  is  in  her  boots. 

Foiled,  Cupid  threw  aside  his  bow ; 

"  She  has  no  heart,"  said  he. 
(He  did  not  know  that  long  ago 

She  gave  her  heart  to  me.) 
64 


THE  CELEBRANTS 

WITH  a  shout  of  joy  the  rocket  stars 
Shot  up  through  the  evening  air, 
Triumphantly  they  reached  the  sky, 

And  the  stars  of  God  were  there. 
"  Make  way  ! ."  the  rocket  stars  cried  out, 

"  Make  way,  and  give  us  place : 
We  have  a  mission  to  perform, 

We  've  travelled  leagues  of  space. 
We  're  sent  up  here  to  celebrate 

A  glorious  country's  birth  — 
Make  way !    But  a  moment  we  can  stay, 

Ere  we  die  and  fall  to  earth." 

Then  spake  the  old  and  kindly  stars : 

"  Ye  be  bright,  oh,  rocket-spawn, 
But  we  are  here  since  the  morning  stars 

Sang  at  Creation's  dawn. 
By  the  Master  Hand  we  were  hurled  on  high 

To  celebrate  the  Day. 
We,  too,  but  shine  for  the  moment,  Time, 

And  then  we  fade  for  aye. 
But  have  your  way,  oh,  tiny  sparks, 

And  while  ye  may,  shine  on." 
Ere  the  kindly  voices  ceased  to  speak, 

The  rocket  stars  were  gone. 

5  65 


"THEY  THAT  GO  DOWN  TO 
THE  SEA  IN  SHIPS" 

COME  with  the  rest  of  us 
Down  to  the  sea ! 

There  is  where  we 
Show  out  the  best  of  us. 

Holiday  keep, 
Chums  with  the  waves ; 

When  saucy  winds  sing, 
All  of  our  cares 

Back  to  them  fling  ; 
Doldrums,  despairs 

Burying  deep 
In  the  upspringing  caves. 

Come  then  with  me, 

Down  to  the  sea, 

Down  to  the  sea. 

'Neath  the  sun  blinking, 

All  the  forenoon 
On  deck  I  lie, 

And  look  without  shrinking 
My  soul  in  the  eye, 

Hearing  the  croon 
66 


"THEY  THAT  GO  DOWN  TO   THE   SEA" 

Of  wandering  waves 

That  have  lost  their  way ; 

Then  a  dashing  of  spray, 

Like  all  April  let  loose, 
Now  daring  the  braves, 

Now  calling  a  truce. 
Then  under  our  view 
Grey  melts  to  blue, 
Blue  hardens  to  grey. 
Oh,  what  a  day  ! 
Is  there  such  thing  as 

Sorrow  or  age  ? 
Is  there  such  sting  as 

Rancour  or  rage  ? 

How  much  he  misses 

Who  knows  not  the  sea ! 
Its  lingering  kisses 

Are  salt  on  our  lips  — 

How  the  boat  skips, 
Dipping  and  scooping ! 

Here  is  a  sight, 

Here  is  delight 
Out  of  all  whooping ! 
Vogue-la-galere, 
Devil-may-care, 
67 


IDLE   IDYLS 


We  know  the  Master- Word, 
We  have  its  summons  heard. 
Come  then  with  me 
Down  to  the  sea, 
Down  to  the  sea. 


68 


A  MAIDEN'S  NO 

Maidens  turn  their  heads  away 

Meaning  yes,  and  saying  nay.  —  Old  Song. 

SHE  thought  to  mask  her  heart  from  me 
With  jest  and  laughter  gay  ; 
I  knew  she  loved  me  by  her  glance 
(She  looked  the  other  way) . 

I  sent  her  roses,  begging  she 
Would  wear  them.    The  coquette 

Told  me  she  loved  me  by  her  choice 
(She  wore  some  mignonette) . 

And  when  a  rival  claimed  my  waltz, 

By  her  capricious  whim 
She  plainly  showed  she  cared  for  me 

(She  gave  the  dance  to  him) . 

She  loved  me  well ;  and  one  fair  night 

I  asked  her  if  't  were  so ; 
I  knew  it  by  her  whispered  word 

(She  softly  murmured  "  No"). 
69 


THE  ORIGINAL  SUMMER  GIRL 

AFTER  much  biologic  research, 
From  evidence  strong,  I  believe 
That  I  have  found  out 
Beyond  shadow  of  doubt 
That  the  first  Summer  Girl  was  Eve. 

She  had  unconventional  ways, 
She  lived  out-of-doors,  and  all  that ; 

She  was  tanned  by  the  sun 

Until  brown  as  a  bun, 
For  she  roamed  'round  without  any  hat. 

To  a  small  garden-party  she  went, 
Where  the  men  were  exceedingly  few ; 

But  she  captured  a  mate 

And  settled  her  fate, 
As  often  these  Summer  Girls  do. 

Now,  my  statement  of  course  I  have  proved, 
But  as  evidence  that  is  n't  all ; 
A  Summer  Girl  she 
Is  conceded  to  be 

Because  she  staid  there  till  the  Fall. 
70 


THE  DEBUTANTE 


THERE  'S  a  new  heart  awaiting  a  tenant  ; 
To  whom  shall  its  portals  unclose  ? 
Dan  Cupid  is  flying  his  pennant 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

This  heart  is  not  offered  for  selling, 

The  owner  all  freely  bestows 
A  hostelry  fit  for  Love's  dwelling, 

At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

There  's  a  happy  smile  caught  in  her  dimple, 

That  only  a  debutante  shows  ; 
And  chatter  is  guileless  and  simple 

At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 

She  's  pleased  with  the  veriest  trifles, 
No  artful  bewitchment  she  knows  ; 

But  Cupid  a  sigh  or  two  stifles 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 


IDLE    IDYLS 


And,  indeed,  the  poor  fellow  has  reason, 
As  he  thinks  of  the  long  string  of  beaux 

Who  '11  successively  stop  for  a  season 
At  The  Sign  of  the  Lily  and  Rose. 


72 


BALLADE  OF  WISDOM  AND 
FOLLY 

(A  DOUBLE   REFRAIN) 

T  STUDY  wise  themes  with  rigid  care, 
-*-     Logic  and  law  and  philosophy, 
Sermons  and  science,  and  I  declare 

Wisdom 's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  when  I  read  with  a  lively  glee 
Rollicking  tales  of  fun  and  mirth, 

I  laugh  to  myself,  and  I  clearly  see 
Folly  's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

To  copy  the  masters  I  oft  repair,  — 

Of  Rubens  and  Rembrandt  a  devotee ; 
I  study  line  and  school  with  care,  — 

Wisdom 's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

Then  I  see  a  sketch  in  a  lighter  key, 
Ah,  line  and  school  were  never  worth 

This  little  French  bit  of  frivolity,— 
Folly 's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 
73 


IDLE   IDYLS 


I  know  a  girl  who  is  calm  and  fair, 

Of  ancient  and  noble  pedigree ; 
She 's  wise  and  learned  beyond  compare, 

Wisdom 's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 

But  another  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 
Without  her,  life  were  a  dreary  dearth ; 

Fickle  and  foolishly  fond  is  she,  — 
Folly  's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 

L'ENVOI 

Prince,  I  am  sure  you  must  agree 
Wisdom  's  the  goodliest  gain  for  me. 
But  ever  I  '11  give  it  the  widest  berth,  — 
Folly 's  the  fairest  thing  on  earth. 


74 


A  POSSIBILITY 

T  ONLY  kissed  her  hand ; 

-••     Is  that  why  Lisette  dislikes  me  ? 

I  cannot  understand  — 

I  only  kissed  her  hand, 

I  deserved  a  reprimand  ;  — 

But  another  notion  strikes  me, 
I  only  kissed  her  hand ; 

Is  that  why  Lisette  dislikes  me  ? 


75 


A  MEMORY 


HOW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  old-fashioned 
dresses, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
In  fancy  I  see  the  old  wardrobes  and  presses 
Which  held  the  loved  gowns  that  in  girlhood  I 

knew. 
The  wide-spreading   mohair,  the   silk    that    hung 

by  it; 
The    straw-coloured    satin  with    trimmings    of 

brown ; 

The  ruffled  foulard,  the  pink  organdy  nigh  it ; 
But,    oh!    for   the   pocket   that   hung  in  each 

gown ! 

The  old-fashioned  pocket,  the  obsolete  pocket, 
The  praiseworthy  pocket  that  hung  in  each  gown. 

That  dear  roomy  pocket  I  'd  hail  as  a  treasure, 
Could  I  but  behold  it  in  gowns  of  to-day  ; 

I  'd  find  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
But  all  my  modistes  sternly  answer  me  "  Nay  !  " 
76  " 


A    MEMORY 


T  would  be  so  convenient  when  going  out  shopping, 
T  would  hold  my  small  purchases  coming  from 

town ; 

And  always  my  purse  or  my  kerchief  I  'm  dropping  — 
Oh,  me !  for  the  pocket  that  hung  in  my  gown  ! 
The  old-fashioned  pocket,  the  obsolete  pocket, 
The  praiseworthy  pocket  that  hung  in  my  gown. 

A  gown  with  a  pocket !     How  fondly  I  'd  guard  it ! 

Each  day  ere  I  'd  don  it,  I  'd  brush  it  with  care ; 
Not  a  full  Paris  costume  could  make  me  discard  it, 
Though  trimmed  with  the  laces  an  Empress  might 

wear. 
But  I  have  no  hope,  for  the  fashion  is  banished ; 

The  tear  of  regret  will  my  fond  visions  drown ; 
As  fancy  reverts  to  the  days  that  have  vanished, 
I  sigh  for  the  pocket  that  hung  in  my  gown. 
The  old-fashioned  pocket,  the  obsolete  pocket, 
The  praiseworthy  pocket  that  hung  in  my  gown. 


77 


THE  VAMPIRE  OF  THE  HOUR 

(WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  MR.  KIPLING  AND  MR.  BURNE- 
JONES) 

A  FOOL  there  was,  and  he  paid  his  fare 
(Even  as  you  and  1!) 
To  see  Le  Gallienne's  hank  of  hair 
(We  said  he  was  only  a  fake  affair) , 
But  the  fool  he  called  him  a  genius  rare, 
(Even  as  you  and  1!) 

Oh,  the  fads  we  make,  and  the  freaks  we  take, 

And  the  glories  we  all  believe 
Belong  to  the  jaundiced  degenerate, 
Or  the  mystical  mattoid  at  any  rate, 

With  his  handkerchief  up  his  sleeve. 

A  critic  there  was,  and  he  had  his  whack 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
He  wrote  of  a  wondrous  symposiac, 
(And  it  wasn't  the  least  like  Le  Gallienne's  clack), 
But  a  critic  must  follow  the  beaten  track, 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
78 


THE    VAMPIRE    OF    THE    HOUR 

Oh,  the  lies  we  write  and  the  lies  we  cite 

And  the  excellent  things  we  say 
About  whatever  may  happen  to  be 
The  idol  to  which  we  bend  the  knee, 
The  fetish  of  the  day. 

The  fool  to  meet  the  freak  was  bid, 

(Even  as  you  and  I!) 
Hoping  he  'd  show  where  his  wit  lay  hid, 
(But  it  isn't  on  record  Le  Gallienne  did), 
And  the  fool  was  bored,  and  so  he  slid 

(Even  as  you  and  I !) 

And  it  is  n't  the  vice  and  it  is  n't  the  price 

That  causes  our  gloom  profound  ; 
It 's  coming  to  know  that  we 'all  are  fools, 
And  we  're  just  as  foolish  as  other  fools 
Who  follow  the  treadmill  round. 


79 


A 


AN  AQUARELLE 

MERMAID,  people  sometimes  think, 
Has  nothing  else  to  do 
But  to  sit  on  the  rocks 
And  comb  her  locks 
The  livelong  summer  through. 

But  I  will  tell  you  of  Mermaid  Smith, 
And  I  '11  tell  you  of  Mermaid  Brown, 
Who  would  oft  dispense 
O'er  the  garden  fence 
The  gossip  of  the  town. 

On  summer  mornings,  Mermaid  Smith 
With  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
And  Mermaid  Brown 
In  a  calico  gown 
And  a  sun-bonnet  striped  with  red, 

At  their  garden  gate  for  an  hour  or  more 
Would  loiter  with  idle  fins, 
The  little  twirls 
Of  their  golden  curls 
Done  up  in  crimping- pins. 
80 


AN   AQUARELLE 


And  Mermaid  Brown  would  tell  Mermaid  Smith 
How  her  jellyfish  would  n't  jell ; 

It  had  simmered  and  boiled, 
Till  she  feared  it  was  spoiled. 
Said  Mermaid  Smith,  "  Do  tell !  " 

And  Mermaid  Smith  had  trouble  too. 
She  had  set  her  sponge  to  rise, 

And  it  had  n't  riz. 

"  What  a  shame  that  is ! " 
Said  Mermaid  Brown  with  sighs. 

Then  perhaps  they  'd  discuss  Miss  Lorelei  Green 

Who  disappeared  one  day ; 

With  a  gay  sea-urchin, 

While  her  parents  were  searchin', 

She  wickedly  ran  away. 

And  the  two  good  fishwives  deeply  sighed, 
And  expressed  a  heartfelt  wish 

That  both  of  their  daughters 
In  calm,  placid  waters 
Should  attend  a  polite  school  of  fish. 

Then  one  would  say,  "  This  won't  do  for  me  ! 
It 's  time  my  work  began." 
"  And  I  must  away," 
The  other  would  say, 
"  I  've  some  ocean  currents  to  can." 
6  81 


IDLE    IDYLS 


And  so  the  Mermaids,  as  you  see, 
Are  very  much  like  us  ; 

A  little  work, 

A  little  shirk, 
A  little  fluster  and  fuss. 


82 


IN  ABSENCE 


(A   RONDEAU) 

ON  Christmas  Day  as  far  and  near 
The  bells  ring  out  their  message  clear, 
Your  thoughts  will  turn  to  me,  I  know, 
And  mine  to  you  as  swift  will  go, 
To  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  dear. 

And  those  whom  you  may  see  and  hear 
Will  not  give  greeting  more  sincere 
Than  this  I  send  across  the  snow 
On  Christmas  Day. 

Amid  the  mirth  and  merry  cheer 
Of  this  glad  time  that  crowns  the  year, 
Haply  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
I  '11  shyly  whisper,  sweet  and  low, 
A  soft  70  Vaime  just  for  your  ear, 

On  Christmas  Day. 


FROM  VIVETTE'S  MILKMAID 

AMAYDE  ther  was,  semely  and  meke  enow, 
She  sate  a-milken  of  a  Purpil  Cowe : 
Rosy  hire  Cheke  as  is  the  Month  of  Maye, 
And  sikerly  her  merry  Songe  was  gay 
As  of  the  Larke  uprist,  washen  in  Dewe. 
Like  Shene  of  Sterres  sperkled  hire  Eyen  two. 
Now  came  ther  by  that  Way  a  hendy  Knight, 
The  Mayde  espien  in  morwening  Light. 
A  faire  Person  he  was,  of  Corage  trewe, 
With  lusty  Berd  and  Chekes  of  rody  Hewe : 
Dere  Ladye  (quod  he) ,  far  and  wide  I  've  straied, 
Uncouthe  Aventure  in  strange  Contree  made, 
Fro  Berwike  unto  Ware.     Parde  I  vowe 
Erewhiles  I  never  sawe  a  Purpil  Cowe ! 
Fayn  wold  I  knowe  how  Catel  thus  can  be  ? 
Tel  me,  I  praie  you,  of  yore  Courtesie ! 
The  Mayde  hire  Milken  stent.  —  Goode  Sir,  she  saide, 
The  Master's  mandement  on  us  ylaid 
Decrees  that  in  these  yclept  Gilden  Houres 
Hys  Kyne  shall  ete  of  nought  but  Vylet  Floures. 


84 


A  WOMAN'S  WAIL 

TT/HY  do  I  wear  a  veil  ? 

*  *       T  is  of  no  use, 
T  is  always  fetching  loose, 
A  plaything  of  the  winds,  that  takes  delight 
In  ever  being  wrong  and  never  right. 
Though  of  my  costume  't  is  a  chief  detail, 
It  makes  me  fret  and  fume  and  fuss  and  rail. 
This  veil ! 

I  cannot  get  it  off  when  it  is  on, 
And  once  I  doff  it,  then  I  cannot  don. 
Why  do  I  wear  it  ?    T  is  a  nuisance  great, 
Beyond  all  words  to  state. 
And  an  expense 
Immense ! 

This  wretched,  flimsy  veil ! 
It  is  so  frail, 

To-day  I  buy  a  new  one,  and,  behold, 
To-morrow  it  is  old  ! 
Forth  to  the  shops  then  angrily  I  hie 
Another  veil  to  buy. 

85 


IDLE    IDYLS 


On  every  side  I  see  rare  bargain  sales, 

But  not  of  veils. 

And  so  I  pay  an  awful  price, 

For  I  must  have  it  nice  ; 

With  knots, 

Or  spots, 

Or  tiny  polka  dots  ; 

Or  simple  plain  illusion.     But  of  such 

I  buy  six  times  as  much. 

And  so, 

You  know, 

The  cost  is  just  as  great. 

Oh,  how  I  hate 

A  veil  ! 

Do  you  suppose 

I  like  to  feel  it  rubbing  'gainst  my  nose  ? 

Forever  catching  on  my  eyelash  tips, 

Persistently  adhering  to  my  lips, 

The  while  the  ill  -dyed  blackness  of  its  lace 

Makes  grimy  smudges  on  my  face. 

Or  if  the  veil  be  white, 

Itself  it  smudges  till  it  is  a  sight  ! 

Why  do  I  wear  it  ? 


It  is  a  crime  thus  daily  to  enwrap 
One's  self  in  such  a  microbe-trap  J 
86 


A    WOMAN'S    WAIL 


Death  and  disease  lurk  hidden  in  its  curves. 

A  pest !    A  bane !    A  blot  upon  our  sex, 

Just  made  to  vex 

A  burdened  woman's  overburdened  nerves. 

Oh,  Fashion,  hear  my  wail ! 

Or  is  my  plea  to  go  without  a  veil 

Without  avail  ? 


THE  DISCRIMINANT 

GIVE  me  no  colonial  novel,  give  me  no  best-selling 
screed, 
For  I  'm  told  Emotional  Studies  are  the  only  things 

to  read,  — 
Questions  of  the  Inner  Ego  by  some  stylish  woman 

writ; 
Analytic  introspection  of  capacities  is  It. 

Morbider  than  Henry  James's,  capabler  than  Mere 
dith's, 

See  the  Elementary  Heroines  struggling  like  Hellenic 
myths! 

Oh,  the  joy  of  knowing  surely  how  an  elemental  mind 

Is  affected  by  emotion  of  an  elemental  kind ! 

Oh,  the  deep  delight  of  learning  just  what's 
psychically  true, 

By  impressive  demonstration  from  a  subtle  point  of 
view! 

What  extraordinary  insights  and  reactions  most  com 
plex 

Follow  elemental  kisses  from  the  elemental  sex. 
88 


THE    DISCRIMINANT 


And  ecstasy  unspeakable  through  simple  souls  is  sent 
When  the  psychical  and  physical  are  nebulously  blent. 
And  how  deeply  we  Discriminating  Readers  have 

enjoyed 
The  poetry  of  th'  Impalpable  effectively  employed. 

So  give  me  no  more  novels  of  historical  import, 
No  frivolous  romances  of  a  wishy-washy  sort ; 
No  stories  of  adventure  or  tales  of  hidden  crime, 
For  on  these  themes  Discriminating  Persons  waste 
no  time. 

And  though  my  baser  nature  all  longingly  may  look 
Toward  Howells's  new  novel  or  Kipling's  latest  book ; 
Though  in  a  thoughtless  moment  it  seems  to  me  I  'd 

like 
To  read  of  Tommy's  Grizel  or  of  Stringtown  on  the 

Pike; 

Such  desires  I  sternly  banish,  for  I  'm  bound,  at 

any  rate  — 

In  my  fictional  selection  I  will  discriminate ; 
And  nothing  written  shall  my  literary  palate  please 
But  a  Psychic  Impressivity  in  subtle  harmonies. 


89 


NOTHING  TO  READ 


THE  BALLAD  OF  A   BOSTON  MAID 

MISS  PARTHENIA  BROWNING,  of  Boston, 
they  say, 

Has  accounts  at  three  separate  bookshops ; 
And  yet  she  remarked  to  a  caller  one  day, 
In  a  very  despairing,  resigned  sort  of  way, 
That  one  might  as  well  go  to  the  cookshops, 
For  nothing  worth  reading  appeared  any  more ; 
She  'd  looked  over  the  volumes  at  every  bookstore, 
And  they  all  were  so  trashy.    For  her  part,  indeed, 
She  was  free  to  confess  she  had  nothing  to  read. 
"  Nothing  to  read  ?  "  said  her  friend,  in  surprise, 
Toward  Parthenia's  bookcases  casting  her  eyes  — 
"  Why,  how  can  you  say  so,  when  all  of  those  books 
Have  never  been  opened,  to  judge  from  their  looks  ? 
And  they  're  very  attractive  —  a  well -chosen  lot ; 
I  should  think  you  'd  enjoy  that  fine  set  of  Scott." 
Miss  Parthenia  blushed,  as  if  caught  in  a  crime, 
90 


NOTHING   TO  READ 


But  she  answered  :  "  I  'm  saving  Scott  till  1  Ve  more 

time." 
The  friend  ventured  again,   "  Read   Dickens,  my 

dear !  " 

"  Oh,  his  tales  are  so  sad,  and  his  people  so  queer !  " 
"  Try  Pope !  "   "  He 's  too  heavy."    "  Then  Hope  !  " 

"  He's  too  light." 

"  Read  Howells's  novels  !  "  "  His  plots  are  so  slight." 
"  Then   Henry  James'  stories !  "     "  His  words  are 

so  long ! " 
"  Thomas  Hardy  !  "  "  Oh,  goodness,  he  's  really  too 

strong ! " 
"  Then  Weyman !  "  "  Too  gory !  "  "  Miss  Wilkins !  " 

"  Too  tame ! " 
"  Sarah  Grand ! "    "I  hate  women  who  boast  of 

their  aim." 

"  Well,  Marie  Corelli !  "    "  Oh,  don't  mention  her !  " 
"  Hall  Caine !  "     "  No,   indeed  ;  something  gay  I 

prefer." 
"  Rudyard  Kipling ! "     "1  would,  but  our  family 

physician 

Only  yesterday  borrowed  my  whole  new  edition." 
"  Jerome  !  "  "  He 's  too  silly."  "  Zangwill !  "  "  He  's 

too  smart." 
"Then    Richard    Le    Gallienne ! "     "  He   has    no 

art." 

9' 


IDLE    IDYLS 


"  Mrs.  Hodgson  Burnett !  "  "I  detest  her  profanity." 
"  Miss  Rosa  N.  Gary  !  "  "  Can't  stand  her  inanity." 
"  Try  Cooper  ! "  "I  've  read  '  The  Spy  '  and  '  The 

Rover'!" 
"  Then  Trilby  !  "    "I  've  read  that  a  dozen  times 

over." 

"  Read  something  of  Marion  Crawford's.    They  say 
His  latest  new  book  is  the  talk  of  the  day." 
"  I  dare  say  it  is,  but  that  man  writes  so  fast 
I  could  n't  keep  up  with  him.    I  think  the  last 
Of  his  books  that  I  read  was  '  The  Ralstons,'  and  so 
I  'm  sorry ;  but  I  '11  never  catch  him,  I  know." 
"  Read  Ian  Maclaren."    "  He 's  only  a  botch." 
"  Or  Barrie !  "    "  He  's  good,  but  I  don't  care  for 

Scotch." 

"  Mrs.  Oliphant,  then,  or  Mrs.  H.  Ward !  " 
"  By  both  of  these  women  I  'm  awfully  bored." 
"The  Duchess!"     "How  dare  you!"      "Then 

Stockton  or  Doyle, 

Or  Tolstoy's  tales  of  the  sons  of  the  soil. 
Read  Emerson's  Essays,  Macaulay,  or  Lamb, 
Or  read  *  The  Rubaiyat '  of  Omar  Khayyam. 
Read  tales  of  adventure  by  Irving  or  Poe, 
Or  mild-mannered  novels  by  Edward  P.  Roe ; 
Du  Chaillu,  du  Maurier,  De  Quincey,  Defoe, 
Or  Byron,  or  Homer,  or  Jean  Ingelow ; 
92 


NOTHING    TO    READ 


Or  Shakespeare,  or  Swinburne,  Villon,  or  Verlaine, 
Or  Sienkiewicz,  Merriman,  Crockett,  or  Crane  ; 
Or  read  Victor  Hugo's  wild  murders  and  crimes, 
Or  Oliver  Herford's  ridiculous  rhymes. 
Lewis  Carroll,  or  Riley,  or  Gilbert,  or  Lear  — 
Surely  some  of  these  authors  must  please  you,  my 

dear!" 

But  to  each  of  the  names  in  this  motley  collection 
Miss  Parthenia  Browning  opposed  an  objection. 
And  later  when  bidding  her  caller  good-bye, 
She  said,  with  a  sad  little  smile  and  a  sigh, 
"  I'm  so  much  alone,  you 'd  be  awfully  kind 
If  you  'd  help  to  divert  my  too  studious  mind. 
And  do  lend  me  some  books,  for  you  must  have 

agreed 
That  really  and  truly  I  've  nothing  to  read." 


93 


A  PICTURE 

THE  hollyhock  lifts  its  flowery  torch, 
The  meadow  is  starred  with  daisies  fair ; 
The  roses  clamber  about  the  porch, 
And  bees  swing  by  with  an  idle  air. 

On  the  hillside  linger  the  sheep  sedate, 
Down  in  the  fields  are  the  lowing  kine ; 

A  maiden  stands  by  the  farmhouse  gate 
Embowered  by  the  sprays  of  a  framing  vine. 

A  bird-note  trills  through  the  sunny  sky ; 

A  rustic  swain  comes  up  the  road 
With  a  merry  smile  in  his  twinkling  eye, 

As  he  guides  his  ox-team's  heavy  load. 

But  what  does  she  care  for  his  flattering  look, 
Or  the  buzzing  bees,  or  the  cows'  sweet  breath, 

Or  the  clustering  vine,  or  the  babbling  brook  ? 
She 's  a  city  girl  who  is  bored  to  death. 


94 


A  PROBLEM 


THERE 'S  a  whimsey  in  my  noddle,  there 's  a 
maggot  in  my  brain, 

There 's  a  doubt  upon  my  spirit  that  I  cannot  quite 
explain. 


T  is  a  grave,  important  question  over  which  I  vacil 
late,  — 

Does  Enlightenment  enlighten,  and  does  Culture  cul 
tivate  ? 

We  are  of  the  Cognoscenti,  and  intuitively  know 
Just  the  shades  of  thoughtful  fancy  that  an  author 
ought  to  show. 

But  from  our  exalted  level  should  we  drop  a  poisoned 

hint 
To  the  placid  ones  who  wallow  in  the  sordid  slums 

of  print  ? 

Should  the  Unenlightened  Readers  be  sardonically 

hissed 

If  they  like  a  Duchess  novel  better  than  The  Egoist  ? 
95 


IDLE    IDYLS 


Should  we  rare  ones  who  inhabit  the  exalted  realms 

of  thought, 
Dictate  to  the  Unenlightened  what  they  ought  n't  or 

they  ought  ? 

To  the  masses  should  our  classes  offer  Ibsen  when  we 

find 
Mr.  Caine  and  Miss  Corelli  better  please  the  massy 

mind  ? 

Should  we  shudder  to  discover  that  they  cannot  get 

the  pith 
Of  the  tenebrastic  subtleties  of  Mr.  Meredith  ? 

Should  we  rudely  contradict  them  when  they  con 
fidently  say, 

"  Omar  wrote  The  Iliad  and  Holmes'  first  name  was 
Mary  J. "  ? 

Or  shall  we  abandon  flatly  this  whole  altruistic  fight, 
With  the  philosophic  dictum  that  "  Whatever  is,  is 
right "  ? 

Then,  instead  of  wasting  time  in  teaching  others  how 

to  think, 
We  can  spend  those  precious  moments  with  Hafiz  or 

Maeterlinck. 

96 


A    PROBLEM 


Let  us  stop  our  futile  task  of  pointing  to  the  open 
door, 

Let  the  Enlightened  cease  enlightening  and  the  Cult 
ured  cult  no  more. 


97 


THE   DEGENERATE   NOVELIST 

T>ENEATH  a  sheltering  pseudonym 
JD     He  writes  those  grisly  tales  and  grim, 

That  sicken  and  depress  ; 
A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  aster  is  to  him, 

And  it  is  nothing  less. 


98 


HER  SPINNING-WHEEL 

HER  spinning-wheel  she  deftly  guides, 
As  by  the  homely  hearth  she  bides ; 
Within  a  quaint,  old  straight-backed  chair, 
A  damsel  with  a  modest  air, 
Over  the  treadle  swift,  presides. 

But  through  the  years  Time  onward  glides, 
Careless  if  good  or  ill  betides  ; 
Nor  will  his  ruthless  changes  spare 
Her  spinning-wheel. 

Another  cycle  he  provides, 

Though  censor  carps  and  critic  chides, 

The  modern  maid,  fearless  and  fair, 

Daintily  gay  and  debonair ; 
Trimly  equipped,  triumphant  rides 
Her  spinning  wheel. 


99 


UNKIND  FATE 

TO  a  pretty  little  cottage, 
At  Seashore-by-the-Sea, 
I  went  to  spend  a  season 

With  my  friend,  Carruthers  Lee. 
We  met  two  charming  maidens, 

As  sweet  as  they  could  be ; 
But  fate  was  unpropitious, 
As  I  'm  sure  you  will  agree. 
For  I  loved  Polly, 

And  Polly  loved  Lee, 
And  Lee  loved  Kitty, 
And  Kitty  loved  me. 

I  could  n't  restrain  my  passion 

For  Polly,  so  sweet  was  she  ; 
While  Carruthers  was  just  determined 

That  Kitty  his  bride  should  be. 
The  girls  were  shy  and  timid, 

But 't  was  easy  enough  to  see 
That  Polly  was  fond  of  Carruthers, 

While  Kitty  favored  me. 

100 


UNKIND    FATE 


Yes,  I  loved  Polly, 

And  Polly  loved  Lee, 
And  Lee  loved  Kitty, 

And  Kitty  loved  me. 

I  pleaded  my  cause  with  Polly, 
I  wooed  her  on  bended  knee ; 
While  Carruthers  courted  Kitty, 
And  earnestly  urged  his  plea. 
The  girls  looked  sad  and  wistful, 
Or  laughed  in  pretended  glee, 
But  they  answered  "  No  "  to  our  pleadings ; 
And  so,  all  hopelessly, 
I  still  love  Polly, 

And  Polly  loves  Lee ; 
And  Lee  loves  Kitty, 
And  Kitty  loves  me. 


101 


WOMAN'S  WAY 

FATHER  TIME  sat  in  his  study, 
Lounging  in  his  easy -chair. 
Nice  old  chap,  so  hale  and  ruddy, 

With  his  long  white  beard  and  hair. 

Suddenly  unto  his  portal 

Came  a  sound  of  flying  feet  — 
Prettier  than  any  mortal  — 

April  entered,  fair  and  sweet. 

In  a  gown  of  primrose  yellow, 

With  a  manner  gay  and  blithe  — 

"  Daddy  Time,  you  dear  old  fellow  !  " 
Said  she,  fingering  his  scythe. 

Father  Time  looked  wisely  at  her, 
And  indulgently  he  smiled. 

"  I  don't  care  to  hear  you  flatter ; 

Tell  me  what  you  want,  my  child." 

102 


WOMAN'S    WAY 


Then  said  April,  coming  closer, 
By  the  forelock  taking  him, 

"  Easter 's  almost  here  —  and  oh,  sir, 
I  've  my  Easter  hat  to  trim. 

"  Such  a  pretty  Easter  bonnet  — 

But,  you  see  1  really  need 
Some  spring  birds  and  posies  on  it." 

But  Time  thundered  "  No,  indeed! 

"  Such  audacity 's  appalling ! 

Birds  and  flowers  belong  to  May." 
Then  the  crystal  tears  came  falling 

(Crafty  April  knew  the  way). 

And  she  said,  though  April  showers 

Almost  drowned  her  plaintive  words, 

"  Can't  I  have  a  few  small  flowers  — 
And  a  half  a  dozen  birds  ?  " 

"  There,  there !  do  not  cry,  my  poppet " 
(Time  was  just  like  other  men). 

"  Don't  cry  !     If  you  '11  only  stop  it 
You  may  have  your  posies  then." 
103 


IDLE    IDYLS 


Quick  the  tears  that  had  been  streaming 
Disappeared  and  left  no  trace. 

Soon  a  radiant  smile  was  beaming 
On  Miss  April's  lovely  face. 

And  she  had  for  her  adorning 

All  the  birds  and  blossoms  bright. 

Crowned  with  these  on  Easter  morning 
April  was  a  charming  sight. 


104 


One  Week 


^  v > 

THE  year  had  gloomily  begun 
For  Willie  Weeks,  a  poor  i 

He  was  beset  with  bill  and  dun, 
And  he  had  very  little 


"  This  cash,"  said  he,  "  won't  pay  my  dues, 
I  've  nothing  here  but  ones  and       TUES." 

A  bright  thought  struck  him,  and  he  said  : 
"  The  rich  Miss  Goldrocks  I  will     WED." 

But  when  he  paid  his  court  to  her, 

She  lisped,  but  firmly  said  :  "  No,    THUR." 

"  Alas,"  said  he,  "  then  I  must  die  ! 
Although  hereafter  I  may  FRI. 


They  found  his  gloves,  and  coat,  and  hat, 
The  Coroner  upon  them  SAT. 


105 


THE  TRAILING  SKIRT 

OH,  product  of  this  vain  and  vapid  age, 
I  would  I  could  thy  doom  presage ! 
With  righteous  wrath  it  makes  me  rage 
To  think  that  in  these  late,  enlightened  years 
Such  an  enormity  appears 
As  thy  lank  length.    I  marvel  and  lament 
That  such  a  bane  was  sent. 
Why  cumberest  thou  the  earth  ? 
Of  thee  we  have  no  need, 
Even  though  thou  'rt  decreed 
By  Worth. 

Thou  trundling,  trailing  skirt ! 
Smearing  thyself  with  dirt, 
Forever  catching  in  the  swinging  doors 
As  we  go  in  and  out  of  stores. 
One  should  be  a  contortionist  expert, 
To  manage  a  trained  skirt. 
Trained  skirt,  indeed!    I  would  thou  hadst  been 

trained 

To  hold  thyself  up  when  it  rained ! 
Perchance  I  pick  thee  up  and  carry  thee, 
Then  see  — 

1 06 


THE    TRAILING    SKIRT 

My  arm 

Shortly  grows  cramped  and  tired. 

Where  is  thy  charm, 

0  trailing  skirt,  that  thou  shouldst  be  desired  ? 
Perchance  I  let  thee  trail, 

A  mass  of  cloth  that  drags 

In  rags 

And  tags 

Like  Dorothy  Draggletail. 

Then  on  thy  folds  a  sturdy  heel  is  placed. 

Of  course, 

1  'm  stopped  perforce. 

(I  feel  thee  parting  from  my  waist !) 

When  I  proceed  't  is  with  the  dread 

That  I  shall  tread 

Upon  some  other  victim's  dragging  gown, 

And,  peering  down, 

I  pick  my  steps  with  care  about  the  town. 

I  may  not  look  to  left  or  right, 

I  miss  the  sight 

Of  all  that  I  came  out  to  see  ; 

I  pass  the  friends  who  bow  to  me 

Without  a  glance. 

Or,  if  perchance 

I  shun  the  dangers  of  the  muddy  street 
And  in  a  crowded  car  lurch  to  a  seat, 
107 


IDLE    IDYLS 


That  dreadful  train  attacks  the  angry,  vexed 

Man  who  sits  next ! 

And,  like  a  living  thing, 

Contrives  to  writhe  and  cling 

And  twine  itself  completely  round  his  feet. 

Chagrined,  I  grab  the  floundering  folds, 

While  every  one  beholds 

The  lining  splashed  and  binding  frayed 

Of  my  best  "  tailor-made," 

Which,  when  I  started,  but  an  hour  ago, 

Was  neat  and  trim  and  comme  ilfaut. 

Oh,  how  can  rational  women  wear 

Such  awful  things,  nor  dare 

Even  feebly  to  protest 

Against  the  pest  ? 

To  be  so  blindly  bound  by  Fashion's  thralls, 

Afraid  to  break  her  rules, 

We  must  be  silly  fools ! 

At  any  rate, 

We  must  be  what  Max  Nordau  calls 

Degenerate ! 


1 08 


QUATRAIN 

YOUTH  throws  a  glamour  over  everything, 
Clothes  wrong  with  right,  and  veils  a  lie  with 

truth ; 

But  age,  more  daring  still,  essays  to  fling 
A  glamour  over  youth. 


109 


THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  AD. 

THE  merit  of  story  or  verse 
Let  others  assert  and  explain, 
Let  others  recount  and  rehearse 
The  work  of  the  erudite  brain. 
The  subject  of  my  humble  strain 
No  eulogy  ever  has  had, 

For  sages  and  poets  disdain 
The  cheery,  ubiquitous  ad. 

In  language  both  graphic  and  terse, 

In  homely,  colloquial  vein 
Your  notice  it  seems  to  coerce, 

Your  attention  it 's  bound  to  enchain. 

Although  of  its  art  you  complain, 
Though  its  rhythm  and  metre  are  bad, 

Yet  still  in  your  mind  't  will  remain, 
The  cheery,  ubiquitous  ad. 

If  you  but  a  trifle  disburse, 

It  offers  you  marvellous  gain ; 
And  quite  within  reach  of  your  purse 

A  miracle  you  may  obtain, 
no 


THE    BALLADE    OF    THE  AD. 

From  a  cot  to  a  castle  in  Spain, 
A  fancy,  a  fake,  or  a  fad ; 

There 's  nothing  escapes  its  domain, 
The  cheery,  ubiquitous  ad. 

L'ENVOI 

Gentle  reader,  I  'm  sure  you  '11  maintain 

That  he  is  a  churl  or  a  cad 
Who  counts  as  a  nuisance  or  bane 

The  cheery,  ubiquitous  ad. 


in 


AUBREY  BEARDSLEY'S 
PICTURES 

A  SPLOTCH  of  black,  a  splash  of  white, 
And  here  and  there  a  curving  line ; 
The  artists  rave,  the  critics  fight, 
The  people  murmur  "  How  divine  !  " 


112 


HER  EASTER  MORNING 

I  SAT  at  my  ease,  and  my  mind  was  at  rest, 
The  holiest  feelings  were  filling  my  breast, 
For  1  knew  I  was  smartly  and  properly  dressed 
And  was  calmly  convinced  I  was  looking  my  best ; 

But  the  musical  drones, 

In  monotonous  tones, 

Sent  a  feeling  of  drowsiness  all  through  my  bones, 
And  visions  unusual  my  senses  impressed ; 
The  air  all  about  me  was  surely  possessed 

With  curious  things 

Which  soared  upon  wings, 
Or  waved  through  the  air  suspended  by  strings. 
I  thought  they  were  butterflies,  fairies,  or  bats, 
But  on  closer  inspection  they  proved  to  be  hats 
Of  every  description,  from  steeples  to  flats ; 
And  though  moving  for  years  in  the  best  of  society, 
I  never  have  seen  such  enormous  variety 

Of  cottage  and  poke, 

Of  turban  and  toque, 

Trimmed  with  feathers  of  ostrich  and  feathers  of 
coque. 

8  113 


IDLE    IDYLS 


There  were  bonnets  of  velvet  and  bonnets  of  lace, 
For  every  occasion  and  every  place ; 
Bonnets  of  silks  and  bonnets  of  satins, 
Bonnets  for  vespers  and  bonnets  for  matins, 

Bonnets  of  jet 

And  bonnets  of  net, 

Trimmed  with  every  conceivable  kind  of  rosette. 
A  Gainsborough  beaver,  with  wide  rolling  brim, 
A  demure  little  gipsy,  exceedingly  prim. 
There  were  hats  of  all  colours,  blue,  white,  green,  and 

black, 

Turned  up  in  the  front  and  turned  up  in  the  back, 
And  a  ripple-edged,  feather-trimmed,  beaded  felt 
plaque. 

And  all  of  these  hats, 

Like  a  great  swarm  of  gnats, 

The  whole  place  o'erspread, 

And  to  my  great  dread 
Each  one  seemed  determined  to  light  on  my  head. 

1  tried  hard  to  say 

"  Oh,  take  them  away," 

When  the  voice  of  a  neighbour  devoutly  implored 
At  my  side,  "  We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us  Good 

Lord," 

1  gave  a  great  start,  I  awoke  with  a  lurch  — 
T  was  Easter,  and  I  had  been  sleeping  in  church. 
114 


AN  UNWRITTEN  POEM 


UPON   this  mossy   bank    I'll  sit,   within  this 
flowery  dell,  — 

It  is  the  place  by  poets  most  preferred,  — 
And  in  a  blithesome  ballad  1  '11  poetically  tell 
The  sentiments  of  yonder  little  bird.'* 

"  O  poet,  spare  me !  "  cried  the  bird ;  "  I'm  weary  of 

this  thing ! 

Excuse  me  if  I  plainly  speak  my  mind  ; 
But  1  've  had  my  poem  taken  twenty -seven  times 

this  Spring, 
Oh,  let  me  go,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  !  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  the  poet  said,  "  it  matters  not  to 
me, 

Another  theme  will  just  as  well  avail ; 
I  'II  write  a  lyric  poem  to  this  budding  apple-tree, 

Or  a  dithyrambic  ode,  beginning  '  Hail ! ' " 


IDLE    IDYLS 


"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  tree,  "  I  pray  you  will 

desist, 

And  seek  some  other  victim,  if  you  please  ; 
I  've  had  enough  of  '  cheered  by  sun '  and  *  by  the 

breezes  kist.' " 
"  I  '11  write  then,"  said  the  poet,  "  of  the  breeze." 

"  Nay,  poet,"  sighed  the  weary  breeze,  "  it  makes 

me  very  tired 

To  ' toss  the  tresses  of  the  trees '  in  rhyme  ; 
Already  since  the  first  of  May  twelve  poets  1  Ve  in 
spired  ; 
I  '11  thank  you  if  you  '11  let  me  off  this  time." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  I  beg,  O  Breeze,  —  of  this  fair 

flow'r  I  '11  speak." 

But  the  flower  answered  gaily,  "  I  protest ! 
I  cannot  pose  for  you ;  I've  sat  for  poems  all  the 

week, 
And  I  really  think  I  ought  to  have  a  rest." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  the  poet  cried.    "  Ah,  here  is 

Spring  herself. 

Goddess !  I  pray  you  grant  an  interview  — 
I  '11  place  you  in  the  public  eye  as  fairy,  sprite,  or  elf, 
Or  write  a  stirring  sonnet  to  your  shoe." 
116 


i     './ 
-  a  / 


AN    UNWRITTEN    POEM 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  poet !  "  cried  the  Spring, "  with  that 

we  can  dispense ; 
Why  waste  your  time  on  hackneyed  themes  and 

trite  ? 
Come,  go  a-Maying  with  us,  and  when  sun  sets  hie 

you  hence, 
And  write  about  the  song  you  did  n't  write." 


117 


THE  BOOK  LIFTER 

YOU  'VE  heard  of  the  Book  Collector,  the  Book 
Lover,  the  Bookworm, 
The  Book  Maker  and  Book  Seller  too,  —  each  is  a 

well-known  term. 
The  "  Bookman  "  and  "  Book  Buyer  "  are  to  us  a  real 

delight, 
But  it 's  of  the  bad  Book  Lifter  that  I  'm  going  for  to 

write. 
His  smile  is  most  engaging,  and  he  has  a  well -stocked 

mind, 

He 's  suave  and  pleasant  spoken  and  particularly  kind : 
But  I  know  his  tricks  and  manners,  and  I  tremble 

when  I  see 

The  odious  Book  Lifter  come  in  to  visit  me. 
He  entertains  me  with  the  latest  literary  chat, 
As  he  scans  my  newest  volumes.    Then  he  picks  out 

this  or  that, 

And  remarks  as  he  is  leaving,  with  a  manner  so  polite : 
"  I'll  skim  this  over  hurriedly  and  send  it  back  to 
night." 

118 


THE    BOOK    LIFTER 


But  I  know  the  bad  Book  Lifter 's  the  forgetfullest  of 

men, 
And  I  know  that  I  shall  never  see  that  borrowed  book 

again. 
Or  perhaps,  with  much  apology,  his  case  he  frankly 

states, 
And  begs  a  book  of  reference  to  see  about  some 

dates. 
He  '11  return  it  "  on  the  morrow,"  but  I  feel  a  little 

glum 
O'er  a  well-defined  conviction  that  to-morrow '11 

never  come. 
Or  perhaps  he 's  absent-minded — doesn't  know  what 

he 's  about, 
When  he  pockets  a  small  volume,  quite  unconsciously, 

no  doubt. 
Or  he  comes  when  I  am  not  at  home,  and  says  that 

he 's  a  friend 
To  whom  at  any  time  most  willingly  my  books  I 

lend. 
Then  he  enters  with  assurance  and  a  deprecating 

smirk, 

And  takes  a  handsome  copy  of  an  illustrated  work. 
Or  perhaps  he  is  a  writer,  and  some  subject,  unfore 
seen, 

Necessitates  the  scanning  of  a  current  magazine ; 
119 


IDLE    IDYLS 


He  has  mislaid  his  copy  —  will  I  kindly  lend  him 
mine  ? 

Of  course  in  such  emergency  I  really  can't  decline. 

Or  he  takes  the  newest  novel,  which  I  have  n't  read 
myself, 

Or  volume  six  or  seven  from  a  set  upon  the  shelf ; 

Or  one  of  my  pet  classics,  or  a  rare!old  Elzevir  — 

And  one  by  one  I  sadly  see  my  treasures  disappear. 

I  'm  powerless  to  prevent  them,  for  I  can't  be  such 
a  dunce 

As  to  seem  to  doubt  the  promise,  "  This  shall  be  re 
turned  at  once." 

But  I  sigh  for  some  far  desert  isle  or  lonely  foreign 
shore, 

Where  the  borrowers  cease  from  borrowing  and  Book 
Lifters  lift  no  more. 


1 20 


UTILITARIAN 

TT^HEN  Cupid  discovered  how  dull  was  his  dart, 
'  *        He  sharpened   it  straightway  on   Phyllis's 
heart. 


121 


UNDER  A  NEW  CHARTER 

HELLO  !    Come  in !    I  called  you,  Cupid, 
To  take  this  box.    Handle  with  care  ! 
Look  out !  don't  be  so  careless,  Stupid ; 
I  'd  have  you  know  my  heart 's  in  there. 

Take  it  at  once,  boy,  to  Miss  Kitty, 

And  say  it  is  a  valentine. 
How  happy  she  '11  look,  and  how  pretty, 

When  she  discovers  it  is  mine  ! 

Tell  her  for  her  my  heart  is  yearning, 
And  then,  unless  my  judgment  errs, 

By  the  same  messenger  returning 
I  rather  think  she  '11  send  me  hers. 

What,  Cupid,  are  you  back  already  ? 

And  bringing  me  Miss  Kitty's  heart  ? 
Open  it  quickly  !    Stay,  be  steady  ! 

What 's  this  ?    A  neatly  printed  chart ! 

122 


UNDER    A    NEW  CHARTER 

"  No  spaces  left  at  my  disposal  — 

Possibly  some  vacated  soon ; 
But  1  have  filed  your  kind  proposal. 

Come  up  and  call  some  afternoon." 

And  here  her  heart  is  designated  — 
What  seas  of  dreams  !  what  flowery  isles ! 

The  boundaries  all  distinctly  stated, 
And  measured  by  a  scale  of  smiles. 

A  large  tract 's  given  to  her  poodle  ; 

A  smaller  one  contains  her  cat ; 
Here  is  the  claim  of  Lord  Fitznoodle, 

Here  her  expensive  picture-hat. 

Here  I  observe  her  mother's  quarters  ; 

This  large  compartment  is  her  dad's ; 
Here,  Revolutionary  Daughters, 

And  here  her  clubs  and  freaks  and  fads. 


Here  is  enshrined  her  baby  cousin, 

And  here  that  Count  with  whom  she  flirts ; 

Here  are  male  tenants  by  the  dozen 
(They  're  only  friends,  so  she  asserts). 
123 


IDLE   IDYLS 


This  corner 's  occupied  by  Irving, 
This  by  her  pearl  and  turquoise  pin ; 

Although  I  know  I  am  deserving, 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  get  in. 


124 


LEFT 

THE  sky  is  blue,  the  sea  is  bright, 
The  waves  are  dancing  with  delight, 
The  earth  is  glad,  my  heart  is  gay, 
Sweet  Kitty  Somers  comes  this  way. 

The  sky  is  dark,  the  sea  is  grey, 

It  is  a  gloomy,  doleful  day, 
The  earth  is  sad,  and  sad  am  I, 

Miss  Katharine  Somers  passed  me  by. 


AN  EXPLANATION 

A  LL  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  they  say ; 
-**>    But  I  prove  that  untrue  every  day  ; 
Whenever  I  try 
For  a  kiss  on  the  sly, 
The  world  seems  to  get  in  the  way. 

And  when  Mabel  goes  walking  with  me, 
The  world  says  "  Ahem !  "  and  "  Te-hee  !  " 

It  gives  a  sly  wink, 

And  I  certainly  think 
It 's  as  horrid  as  horrid  can  be. 

So  that  proverb  is  lacking  in  force ; 
I  wonder  what  gave  it  its  source ; 

But  stay,  —  oh,  I  see ! 

Why,  Mabel  loves  me ! 
And  she 's  all  the  world  to  me,  of  course  ! 


126 


L 


OTHARIO    LEE    was    saddened,    the    world 

seemed  grim  and  grey ; 
For  Lothario  Lee  was  a  lover  bold,  and  to-day  was 
St.  Valentine's  day. 

T  was  St.  Valentine's  day,  and  he  fain  would  send 

his  heart  to  the  fair  Florelle, 
For  the  radiant  maid  had  inspired  in  his  breast  a 

passion  he  could  not  quell. 

But  alas,  for  the  gay  Lothario,  his  heart  was  held  in 

fee, 
Down  at  Dan  Cupid's  pawnshop,  at  the  sign  of  the 

Roses  Three. 


Willingly  would  the  lovelorn  knight   that  errant 

heart  reclaim, 
But,  alas !  the  luckless  Lothario  had  n't  a  cent  to  his 

name. 

127 


IDLE    IDYLS 


So  he  sadly  sat  and  pondered,  as  doleful  as  he  could 

be;   ' 
When  a  brilliant  notion  struck  him  —  "  Done  !  "  cried 

Lothario  Lee. 


u  I'll  send  her  the  pawnshop  ticket,  my  tale  of  woe 

't  will  tell, 
For  she  alone  can  redeem  my  heart,  —  the  rich  and 

rare  Florelle." 

He  sent  her  the  tell-tale  ticket,  he  scribbled  a  hasty 

line, 
Bidding  her  call  at  Dan  Cupid's  shop  and  claim  her 

valentine. 

128 


THE    LAY    OF    LOTHARIO    LEE 

And  as  she  read  the  message,  in  the  soul  of  the  fair 

Florelle 
A  joyful  thought  rang  merrily,  like  a  far-away 

marriage -bell. 

With  her  heart  in  a  frantic  flutter,  adown  the  street 

sped  she, 
Till  she  reached  Dan  Cupid's  pawnshop  at  the  sign 

of  the  Roses  Three. 

Cupid  sat  at  a  workbench,  mending  a  broken  dart ; 
"  I  am  Florelle,"  said  she,  "  and  I  come  to  claim 
Lothario's  heart. 

"  Here  is  the  ticket,  Cupid  ;  what  are  the  ransom  fees  ? 
See,  I  will  pay  you  the  money ;  give  me  the  heart  if 
you  please." 

"But  I  am  blind,"  said  Cupid,  "I  cannot  see  the 

name ; 
Describe  the  heart  you  are  looking  for,  and  so  make 

good  your  claim." 

"  Lothario's  heart,"  said  the  lady,  "  is  brave  and 

knows  no  fear." 
"  Alas,"  said  Cupid,  dejectedly,  "  no  such  heart  is 

here." 

9  129 


IDLE    IDYLS 


"  His  heart,"  said  the  lady,  further,  "  is  honest,  and 

good,  and  true." 
"  No,"  said  Dan  Cupid,  wofully,  "  not  one  of  these 

hearts  will  do." 

"  His  heart  to  me  is  single,  it  beats  for  me  alone." 
"  Come,   come,"  cried   Cupid,  "  impossible !   such 
hearts  1  've  never  known. 

"  The  best  in  my  collection  has  been  mended  once  or 
twice, 

But  here 's  a  heart  that  may  suit  you,  if  you  're  will 
ing  to  pay  the  price. 

"It 's  a  heart  that  is  sad  and  lonely,  a  trifle  hard  and 

cold, 
It  seems  to  be  rather  scarred  and  worn,  —  in  fact,  it 's 

getting  old. 

"  It 's  somewhat  fickle  and  jealous,  a  bit  impatient, 

too, 
And  branded  with  several  maidens'  names,  —  Coralie, 

Rose,  and  Loo." 

"  Why,  that 's  the  very  heart  I  want,"  said  the  lady ; 

"  give  it  to  me. 
That 's  the  one  I  've  been  describing  to  you,  the 

heart  of  Lothario  Lee !  " 
130 


THE    LAY   OF    LOTHARIO    LEE 


As  she  left  the  shop  in  triumph,  said  Cupid,  "  I  seem 

to  find 
Each  day  a  more  convincing  fact  to  prove  that  Love 

is  blind."  1 3 1 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 


childhood's  Christmases  each  brought  to  me 
jhe  Wondrous  glory  of  a  Christmas-tree  ; 

Now  every  year  since  I  've  to  manhood  grown, 

I  buy  a  tree  for  children  of  my  own. 

And  so  to-night  my  mind  looks  back  and  sees 

Life  a  long  avenue  of  Christmas-trees. 


132 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

(WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  MR.  HOOD) 

T   REMEMBER,  I  remember 
**     The  flat  where  I  was  born  : 
The  little  air-shaft  where  the  sun 

Could  not  peep  through  at  morn ; 
The  stuffy  rooms  and  narrow  halls 

Unlit  by  Heaven's  ray ; 
The  seven  winding  flights  of  stairs 

That  took  my  breath  away 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  sickly  daffodils 
That  bloomed  in  old  tomato -cans 

Upon  the  window-sills ; 
The  cupboard  where  the  cake  was  kept, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
A  patent  trap  to  catch  a  mouse,  — 

That  mouse  is  living  yet ! 


IDLE    IDYLS 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  sounds  I  used  to  know : 
The  organ  on  the  floor  above, 

The  violin  below ; 
The  cats  upon  the  fire-escape, 

The  steam-heat  in  the  wall ; 
The  chorus-girl  a-singing  in 

The  flat  across  the  hall. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  scuttle  dark  and  high 
Through  which  I  often  used  to  climb 

To  get  a  glimpse  of  sky. 
I  live  in  first-floor  chambers  now, 

With  nothing  to  annoy, 
But  still  I  'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  BALLET 
DANCER 

HERE  lies  our  much -loved  Coralie, 
She  danced  o'er  death's  dark  wave ; 
We  Jve  seen  her  merry,  but  till  now 
We  never  saw  her  grave. 


AN  IMPORTANT  TRUST 

SCANNING  the  morning  paper  o'er, 
I  find,  to  my  disgust, 
A  new  misfortune  is  in  store  — 
"  They  've  formed  a  Great  Ink  Trust." 

Now  must  I  hang  my  ink-horn  up, 

And  leave  my  pens  to  rust ; 
Despair  and  sorrow  fill  my  cup, 

"  They  've  formed  a  Great  Ink  Trust." 

As  chief  directors,  doubtless,  stand 

The  Publishers,  and  then 
The  Literary  Agents,  and 

The  Clipping  Bureau  men. 

The  stock,  of  course,  is  Limited, 

A  small  part  may  be  sold  ; 
But  by  a  Syndicate,  't  is  said, 

The  output  is  controlled. 
136 


AN   IMPORTANT    TRUST 

I  own  't  would  give  me  quite  a  shock 

If  these  reports  I  heard : 
"  Howells  and  James  are  common  stock," 

And  "  Kipling  is  preferred." 

"  Le  Gallienne  's  margined  heavily ; 

Maclaren,  dropped  behind ; 
Hope  shows  a  hardening  tendency, 

Doyle's  future  has  declined. 

"  Hall  Caine  is  selling  below  par ; 

In  Barrie  there 's  a  lull ; 
Hardy  and  Crawford  steady  are ; 

Meredith,  firm  but  dull." 

Disconsolate  and  ill  at  ease 

I  'd  read  these  stock  reports ; 
/  can't  compete  with  such  as  these  — 

It  makes  me  out  of  sorts. 

But  stay !  such  gloomy  thoughts  I  '11  flout, 

My  mind  I  '11  readjust  — 
My  inkstand  yet  may  be  bought  out 

By  this  same  Great  Ink  Trust ! 


13? 


AN  UNORTHODOX  CHRISTMAS 

I  WENT  to  spend  the  day  with  Rose,  and  then 
A  Christmas  greeting  passed  between  us  two ; 
But  't  was  not  "  Peace  on  Earth,  good-will  to  men," 
We  only  said, "  Good -morning,"  "  How  d'  ye  do  ? " 

And  then  to  her  I  offered  smilingly 
The  present  she  expected  me  to  bring ; 

There  were  no  hanging  hose  —  no  Christmas-tree  — 
The  box  was  tied  in  paper  with  a  string. 

We  did  n't  sit  beside  the  Yule-log's  blaze,  — 
We  just  turned  on  the  radiator's  steam ; 

And  dinner,  unlike  those  of  storied  days, 
Gave  no  plum-pudding,  but  some  bisque  ice-cream. 

We  did  n't  hear  the  church -bells'  solemn  toll ; 

And  when  we  had  our  Christmas  evening  lunch, 
We  did  n't  have  a  steaming  wassail -bowl, 

But  just  a  jug  of  simple  claret  punch. 
138 


AN    UNORTHODOX    CHRISTMAS 

We  trampled  on  traditions,  I  suppose ; 

Yet  one  rite  we  observed  with  care  —  but,  no, 
Although  I  well  remember  kissing  Rose, 

It  was  n't  underneath  the  mistletoe. 


39 


IN  THE  KLONDIKE 

I'M  only  a  homeless  rover 
Up  here  in  a  Klondike  camp ; 
1  've  looked  my  possessions  over 
By  the  light  of  my  cabin  lamp. 
Though  I  'm  an  accepted  lover, 
I  'm  miles  from  that  sweetheart  of  mine, 
And  I  'm  sore  cast  down, 
For  in  Dawson  town 
I  can't  buy  a  valentine. 

I  know  she  '11  have  roses  from  Harry, 

A  basket  of  Huyler's  from  Ned ; 
Beribboned  carnations  from  Larry, 

A  poetic  effusion  from  Fred ; 
A  volume  of  Kipling  or  Barrie 
From  that  idiot,  somebody  Hall, 
And  nothing  of  mine 
For  a  valentine, 

Though  she  loves  me  best  of  all. 
140 


IN    THE    KLONDIKE 


Must  my  sentiment  stay  unspoken 

Because  I  've  no  candies  or  bards  ? 
I  know  she  '11  be  just  heart-broken  — 
Stay  !  here  is  an  old  pack  of  cards ! 
Not  a  very  appropriate  token, 
Nor  suggestive  of  Cupid's  darts, 
But  I  know  what  I  '11  do 
To  prove  I  'm  true  — 
I  '11  send  her  the 


141 


CELA  VA  SANS  DIRE 

I  LIST  to  the  wail  of  each  latter-day  poet 
Who  discovers  his  themes  must  be  six  months 

ahead ; 

The  same  dire  necessity,  did  he  but  know  it, 
Has  coerced  every  writer,  both  living  and  dead. 

My  struggles  with  seasons  full  well  I  remember ; 

I  am  sure  I  speak  whereof  I  know  when  I  say 
That  Tennyson  wrote  his  May  Queen  in  November, 

And  Tom  Hood  composed  his  November  in  May. 

The  Night  before  Christmas  was  sent  to  the  printer, 

(1  'm  morally  sure)  on  the  Fourth  of  July ; 
And  of  course  June,  Dear  June  was  made  up  in  the 

winter, 

And  Spring,  Gentle  Spring,  when  the  Autumn  was 
nigh. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  was  written  in  Summer, 
Thomson's  Seasons  were  all  written  out  of  their 

time, 

Yet  these  things  astonish  each  timid  newcomer 
Who  aims  to  adopt  the  profession  of  rhyme. 
142 


THE  THOUGHTFUL  YARD 
STICK 

A  YARDSTICK  thus  to  himself  did  muse 
As  he  walked  along  the  street ; 
"  I  must  buy  a  pair  and  a  half  of  shoes 
Because  1  have  three  feet." 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN 

T>  ENEATH  the  corner  street-lamp's  flickering  glare 
U     I  stand  with  you,  and  know  that  we  must  part ; 
But  as  the  last  decisive  moment  comes, 
A  coward  hesitation  fills  my  heart. 

I  gaze  once  more  upon  your  fair  white  face, 
And  see  the  lines  my  hand  has  written  there ; 

And  though  I  know  you  're  inwardly  composed, 
You  're  visibly  engrossed,  and  stamped  with  care. 

Wrapped  up  in  you  are  all  my  highest  aims ; 

To  you  my  dearest  secrets  I  've  revealed ; 
To  you  I  've  trusted,  as  to  kindly  fate  ; 

And  as  I  look,  I  know  my  fate  is  sealed. 

But  I  am  sure  you  will  come  back  to  me ; 

My  fingers  touch  you  in  one  last  caress ; 
I  let  you  go,  to  failure  or  to  fame  — 

My  carefully  compounded  MSS. 


144 


OF  MODERN  BOOKS 


(A  PANTOUM) 

OF  making  many  books  there  is  no  end, 
Though  myriads  have  to  deep  oblivion  gone ; 
Each  day  new  manuscripts  are  being  penned, 
And  still  the  ceaseless  tide  of  ink  flows  on. 

Though  myriads  have  to  deep  oblivion  gone, 
New  volumes  daily  issue  from  the  press  ; 

And  still  the  ceaseless  tide  of  ink  flows  on  — 
The  prospect  is  disheartening,  I  confess. 

New  volumes  daily  issue  from  the  press ; 

My  pile  of  unread  books  I  view  aghast. 
The  prospect  is  disheartening,  1  confess ; 

Why  will  these  modern  authors  write  so  fast  ? 

My  pile  of  unread  books  I  view  aghast  — 
Of  course  1  must  keep  fairly  up  to  date  — 

Why  will  these  modern  authors  write  so  fast  ? 
They  seem  to  get  ahead  of  me  of  late. 

10  145 


IDLE   IDYLS 


Of  course  I  must  keep  fairly  up  to  date ; 

The  books  of  special  merit  I  must  read ; 
They  seem  to  get  ahead  of  me  of  late, 

Although  I  skim  them  very  fast  indeed. 

The  books  of  special  merit  I  must  read ; 

And  then  the  magazines  come  round  again ; 
Although  I  skim  them  very  fast  indeed, 

I  can't  get  through  with  more  than  eight  or  ten. 

And  then  the  magazines  come  round  again  ! 

How  can  we  stem  this  tide  of  printer's  ink  ? 
I  can't  get  through  with  more  than  eight  or  ten  — 

It  is  appalling  when  I  stop  to  think. 

How  can  we  stem  this  tide  of  printer's  ink  ? 

Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end. 
It  is  appalling  when  I  stop  to  think 

Each  day  new  manuscripts  are  being  penned ! 


146 


~Ni 

AS  through  Elysian  Fields  I  strayed, 
I  chanced  upon  a  sight  amazing ; 
In  leafy  shade 
Where  fountains  played, 
Old  Pegasus  was  idly  grazing. 

"  Why  are  you  here,  my  friend  ?  "  said  I. 
"  Of  modern  poets  are  you  weary  ? " 
He  gave  a  sigh, 
And  dropped  his  eye, 
And  seemed  embarrassed  by  my  query. 

Said  he,  "  I  'm  treated  with  abuse, 
I  'm  reckoned  now  among  old-timers; 
There 's  no  more  use 
For  Pegasus, 

Since  poets  use  the  auto-rhymers." 
'47 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A 
THEATRE  HAT 

/"TAHE  devil  one  day  in  a  spirit  of  mirth 
-*•       Was  walking  around,  to  and  fro,  on  the  earth, 

When  he  heard  a  man  say, 

In  a  casual  way, 

"  I  think  I  '11  drop  in  at  to-day's  matinee; 
For  I  feel  in  the  humour  to  see  a  good  play, 
And  the  thing  is  a  rattler,  I  've  heard  people  say." 

The  devil  stood  by, 

With  a  smile  in  his  eye, 
And  he  said,  "  I  don't  see  any  good  reason  why 
I,  too,  should  n't  go  to  this  play  that 's  so  fly." 
Now,  His  Majesty,  as  is  well-known  by  the  wise, 
Assumes  at  his  will  any  kind  of  disguise  ; 

And  he  said,  "  I  will  go 

To  this  wonderful  show 

In  the  shape  of  a  man,  and  arrayed  comme  il  faut" 
No  sooner 't  was  said  than  't  was  done,  and  away 
His  Majesty  sped  to  the  gay  matinee. 
In  faultless  attire  becomingly  garbed, 
Concealing  entirely  his  tail  (which  was  barbed), 
148 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  A    THEATRE    HAT 

Correctly  cravatted, 
And  duly  silk-hatted, 
With  his  two  cloven  hoofs   patent-leathered  and 

spatted, 

He  approached  the  box-office  with  jauntiest  airs, 
And  purchased  a  seat  in  the  orchestra  chairs. 
Then  removing  his  tile, 
He  tripped  down  the  aisle 
With  a  manner  which  showed  no  appearance  of 

guile, 

Although  he  could  scarcely  conceal  a  slight  smile 
As  he  noticed  the  ladies  who  sat  near  to  him, 
So  modishly  mannered,  and  quite  in  the  swim,  — 
The  maidens  so  trim, 
And  the  matrons  so  prim, — 
And  he  thought  how  extremely  they  'd  be  horrified 
If  they  had  any  notion  who  sat  by  their  side. 
As  His  Majesty  sat  there  enjoying  it  all 
There  entered  a  lady  exceedingly  tall ; 
With  a  rustle  of  silk  and  a  flutter  of  fur, 
She  sat  herself  down  in  the  seat  kept  for  her, 
Right  in  front  of  Old  Nick,  and  exactly  between 
Himself  and  the  stage.     And  her  insolent  mien 
Proclaimed  her  at  once  a  society  queen. 
Her  shoulders  were  broad  and  supported  a  cape 
Which  gave  you  no  clue  to  her  possible  shape, 
149 


IDLE    IDYLS 


T  was  so  plaited  and  quilled, 

And  ruffled  and  frilled, 
And  it  tinkled  with  bugles  that  never  were  stilled ; 

And  wide  epaulettes 

All  covered  with  jets, 

Caught  up  here  and  there  with  enormous  rosettes, 
And  further  adorned  with  gold-spangled  aigrettes. 
Encircling  her  neck  was  a  boa  of  gauze, 
Accordion-plaited,  and  trimmed  with  gewgaws ; 
And  perched  on  the  top  of  her  haughty  blond  head 
Was  a  HAT!    Now  of  course  you  have  all  of  you 
read 

Of  the  theatre  hats 

That  are  seen  at  the  mats., 

That  are  higher  than  steeples  and  broader  than  flats ; 
But  this  one  as  far  outshone  all  of  the  others 
As    young    Joseph's  dream -sheaves   exceeded    his 

brothers'. 

T  was  a  wide-rolling  brim  and  a  high-peaked  crown, 
Black  feathers  stood  up  and  black  feathers  hung 

down; 

And  black  feathers  waved  wildly  in  every  direction 
Without  any  visible  scheme  of  connection. 
Twas  decked  with  rare  flowers  of  a  marvellous 

size, 

And  colours  that  seemed  to  bedazzle  the  eyes ; 
150 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  A    THEATRE  HAT 

And  each  vacant  space 

Was  filled  in  with  lace, 

And  twenty -three  birds  in  the  ribbons  found  place. 
And  as  this  arrangement  quite  shut  off  his  view, 
The  devil  was  nonplussed  to  know  what  to  do. 
And  although  he  is  not  very  often  amazed, 
Upon  this  occasion  he  found  he  was  fazed. 

But  looking  around 

He  very  soon  found 
That  many  fair  ladies  as  gorgeously  gowned, 

Held  their  hats  in  their  laps, 

Or  still  better,  perhaps 
Had   left   them  outside    in  the   room  with  their 

wraps. 

And  assuming  at  once  a  society  air, 
He  leaned  over  the  back  of  the  fair  stranger's  chair, 

And  with  manner  well-bred, 

"  Beg  pardon,"  he  said, 
"  Will  you  please  take  that  awful  thing  off  of  your 

head  ? " 

When  what  do  you  think  ?    The  lady  addressed 
Indignantly  stared,  and  politely  expressed 
A  decided  refusal  to  grant  his  request ! 

And  the  poor  devil  sat 

Behind  that  big  hat, 

So  mad  that  he  did  n't  know  where  he  was  at. 
15* 


IDLE   IDYLS 


He  could  not  see  a  thing  that  took  place  on  the  stage, 
And  he  worked  himself  into  a  terrible  rage. 

Then  he  murmured  quite  low,  — 

But  she  heard  him,  you  know,  — 
"  Lady,  since  you  refuse  to  remove  that  chapeau 
You  're  condemned  now  to  wear  it  wherever  you  go. 
Since  you  won't  take  it  off  when  a  duty  you  owe, 
You  shall  not  take  it  off  when  you  wish  to  do  so." 
Alas  for  the  lady !    The  devil  has  power, 
And  the  rest  of  her  life,  from  that  terrible  hour, 
The  curse  of  the  devil  compelled  her  to  wear 
That  enormous  beflowered  and  befeathered  affair. 
Her  lot  was  a  sad  one.    If  you  '11  reckon  o'er 
The  times  when  a  hat  is  a  terrible  bore, 

You  '11  certainly  say 

That  to  wear  it  all  day 

And  then  wear  it  all  night  is  a  fate  to  deplore. 
She  wore  it  at  dinners,  she  wore  it  at  balls ; 
She  wore  it  at  home  when  receiving  her  calls ; 
She  wore  it  at  breakfast,  at  luncheon  and  tea, 
Not  even  at  prayers  from  that  hat  was  she  free. 
She  could  n't  remove  it  on  going  to  bed, 
She  rose,  bathed,  and  dressed  with  that  hat  on  her 

head. 

If  she  lounged  in  the  hammock,  perusing  a  book, 
Or  went  to  the  kitchen  to  speak  to  the  cook, 
152 


THE    TRAGEDY  OF  A    THEATRE  HAT 

In  summer  or  winter,  the  hat  was  still  there, 

And  't  was  so  in  the  way  when  she  shampooed  her 

hair. 

Her  lover  would  fain  his  fair  sweetheart  caress, 
But  who  to  his  bosom  could  tenderly  press 
Twelve  black,  waving  feathers  and  twenty -three  birds  ? 
He  said  what  he  thought,  in  appropriate  words, 
And  broke  the  engagement.    She  vowed  she  would  go 
To  a  convent  and  bury  her  sorrow ;  but  no — 
They  would  n't  receive  her.     It  was  the  old  tale, 
That  hat  quite  prevented  her  taking  the  veil. 
The  curse  was  upon  her !    No  mortal  could  save  — 
She  carried  that  ill-fated  hat  to  her  grave. 

MORAL 

Now,  all  you  young  women  with  Gainsborough  hats, 
Beware  how  you  wear  them  to  Saturday  mats. 

Remember  the  fate 

Of  this  maid  up-to-date, 
And  take  warning  from  her  ere  it  may  be  too  late. 


BALLADE  OF  ECCLESIASTES 

BRAVELY  the  faithful  genius  toils  for  years, 
Ambition  lures  him  onward  day  by  day ; 
At  last  the  fruitage  of  his  work  appears, 
His  friends  approve  and  critics  have  their  say. 
Men  crown  him  with  the  laurel  and  the  bay, 
The  guerdon  of  his  fame  is  fairly  won,  — 

And  has  he  then  performed  a  wonder  ?    Nay, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 

The  lover,  tossed  about  'mid  hopes  and  fears, 

To  his  fair  goddess  will  insanely  pray, 
And  begs  her  lovely  favour  when  she  hears 

The  melancholy  burden  of  his  lay. 

And  they  assert,  when  she  has  murmured  "  Yea," 
Such  wondrous  love  as  theirs  was  known  to  none,  — 

But  lovers  think  the  selfsame  things  alway, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 

So  as  we  follow  various  careers 
Which  offer  us  a  choice  of  grave  and  gay, 

Made  up  alternately  of  smiles  and  tears, 
A  little  work  and  then  a  little  play, 


BALLADE    OF    ECCLESIASTES 

As  through  the  years  we  ignorantly  stray, 
Thinking  new  enterprises  we  've  begun, 

We  learn,  when  life  is  passing  fast  away, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  has  been  done. 

L'ENVOl 

Solomon,  you  are  long  since  turned  to  clay, 
But  down  the  years  your  words  shall  ring  for  aye. 
"  There  is  no  new  thing  underneath  the  sun, 
That  which  is  done  is  that  which  shall  be  done." 


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